Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

The End is a very delicate concept, the conclusion of all that is, and often mistaken for its unfolding. But an Ending is distinct from The End. An Ending is not an instantaneous event, but may encompass a thousand lifetimes.

The repercussions of the Sword of Surtur are vast and nuanced. Though the burning blade struck home in Midgard, the roots and branches of Yggdrasil, the World Tree that holds the Nine Worlds and all the Realms together, are burning.

This is not the ending of a world, but of all worlds. The universe is ending.
The Aesir, the ruling tribe of gods, move throughout the realms seeking their fates, some have already fallen.

The Vanir, the tribe of gods that ruled before the Aesir, struggle to defend what they can and to stave off oblivion as long as possible. Their vain hope that they can find another universe to seek refuge in, drives them and their acolytes to seek out the ancient pathways into other realities.

Bifrost the Four Color Bridge, the safe path between Midgard and the world of Asgard lays in ruin.

Space, Time and the Boundaries between worlds, are bent and twisted by the violent thrashings of Jormungandr, the World Serpent that encircles Midgard. One can step into a Saloon in Santa Fe, and find that the interior is a Trollish Dungeon, a wagon train can round a bend in the road and find themselves descending in to a verdant valley of Alfheim splendor. A hunting party of Sioux might stalk deer over a hill only to be confronted by a shambling horde of aptrgangr.

The Five Hundred and Forty Doors of Valhalla are flung open, and alone, the Einherjar, the Soldiers of the Last Army, march to the Final Battle. Unlike the acolytes of the Vanir, the Sons of Odin do not fight to win. They fight to make the battle as bloody and costly for their enemies as possible. The demands of their convictions as absolute and unwavering as the foretelling of their destruction.

But for those who do not share the Secret Knowledge purchased from the Wells of Fate, nor have feasted in the Halls of the gods, nor eaten of Idunn’s Golden Apples, nor drank of the Mead of Poetry, for those who did not stir at the crowing of the gold and the red and the soot colored roosters, those who did not hear the blasting of the Gjallarhorn, for those mortals of all the races and all the realms, today is but another day, in the world as it has always been.

A Broad Brimmed Hat He Wore
A Sky Colored Cloak He Bore
And None There Knew His Name