Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

Homeworld of the Aesir. The great walls around Asgard have been sundered, its safe and guarded bridge to the other worlds burned to ash. Asgard is a desolate wasteland, over run by monsters and nightmares. The Einherjar and those Aesir that still live battle against the Muspellsynir and their dire beasts. Those outsiders that find their way through the cracks and broken holes in the great wall, rarely ever make it out again.

Terrain for games set in Asgard might be scorched earth style ruins, dark age or viking terrain, or even Rohan terrain from the Middle Earth miniature games.

Notable Realms of Asgard:

Trudheim: the realm of Thor, and location of his hall: Bilskirner

Valhalla: The realm of Odin, its contains the silver and gold covered hall of Valaskalf, as well as the Allfather’s throne, Hlidskalf. The great feast hall of Sokkvaback is also found in this realm, along with the great meeting hall of the 13 highest ranking Aesir, Gladsheim.

Himinbjorg: The meadows around Bifrost, the domain of Heimdall. The shattering of the bridge has left this realm a desolate scorched earth.

Breidablick: the realm ruled by Baldur, on the outskirts of Asgard.

Vide: the deep dark forests of Asgard, home to the god of vengeance, Vidar

The world of man – earth. This is where most games of the Runestone campaigns take place. It is the Old West, but peppered with Old Norse mythologies. The Ashes of Creation – which in truth are the dying embers of the burning World Tree – have rewritten reality. The usual passage of time ended in 1860 when a comet stuck the earth, in a near-extinction level event. There are those that believe it was merely a comet, and that effects of which are natural, and those who know that it was the flaming sword of the fire giant Surtr, flung from the primordial realm of Muspelheim, and the beginning of the end of all things.

On Midgard, Jotunar who have been affected by the Ashes appear as men of large stature, 6’6” to 7’ tall. Rarely the 12’ or more giants you might find in other worlds. The Alfar become physical beings of beauty and grace, the Dverge look not like bloated corpses, but stoutly built shorter folk.

Because the burning of the World Tree began in Midgard, the effects of the Ashes of Creation are more pronounced. Outsides who enter Midgard tend to quickly conform to the reality of this dying realm, and the inhabitants of Midgard simply incorporate these newcomers into their reality and memories as though they have always been there. It goes beyond simple delusions, reality itself changes backwards though time. History books, and property deeds might one day include references to a Elven Dynasty that from an outside perspective only fled into Midgard last week.

The same cannot be said when a Midgarder, be they native inhabitant or incorporated refugee, travels to another world.

Terrain for games set in Midgard should likely be your normal Wild West terrain, with a few anachronistic scatter pieces like Carved Runestones, dragon head accents on an otherwise normal old west wood buildings, etc.

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

I crossed into Nevada. They tell me it means “snow covered”, but I have always found the land to be parched and intolerably warm. Rumors, and hearsay I first heard in Kansas had pushed my frantic quest even farther west, as Californians leaden with gold returning to the east brought with them stories of wyrd tidings and disjointed geography. I had not yet learned the truth of the Ashes of Creation, and what I had hoped might lead me to the location of Vigrid, instead brought me to absolute puzzlement. I had little experience in Midgard since the blowing of the Gjallarhorn, and did not readily recognize that things were as badly amiss.

As the town of Elko came into view from the coach window, I saw the local temple complex rising in the distance. But where surely there should have been the rune of White Christ atop the steeple of this church, instead I saw the mark of Red Thor. The Hammer of the fire-bearded cloud-botherer lifted above the town, as though these childlike Midgardar were attempting to return a lost relic to the Allfather’s thundering idiot son.

There in Elko, I found a Gothi in place of a Pastor. A gang of Troll driving a herd of cattle at the outskirts of town. The Saloon, though it’s furnishings were of modern make and style, the interior was arranged in the manner of Mead Halls of yore. A Skroggr barber, and a Dverge skald enthroned at a piano. Shocked by these anachronisms, and befuddled by my own eyes, I sought conversations with as many of these uncouth townsfolk as I could tolerate. Sleuthing out clues and a direction to follow, I resolved to seek out Carson City that very night.
Pg. 165

Aesir: a tribe of gods that over threw the Vanir to become the dominate rulers of the cosmos.

Aett: Family, Gang, Posse, Crew. Plural: Aettir

Alf: a folk found amongst all cultures and peoples, noted for their pointed ears, lithe frames and fondness for art. Pejorative: Elf, Peep; Plural: Alfar

Autumn West: thought to be derived from the received pronunciation of the Old East Norse word “ótam” meaning wild or untamed. Perhaps a pun or Kenning in relation to the word “Fall” and the “Fall of the Gods”

Chosen: The Einheri often state they were “Chosen in –” and give a location. They never mention when, as it seems for them time’s arrow no longer flies true. They will say things like “I am Robert Jones, I was Chosen in Kalamazoo” as though that is a complete explanation! But, for other Einheri it does seem to sum up all that they need to know.

Dverge: a folk noted for their stout physiques, shorter than average stature, and thick hair. It is not uncommon, though not universal, for Dverge to suffer ailments from prolonged times in unsheltered sunlight. Pejorative: Dwarf, Grave-Napper; Plural: Dvergar

Einheri: “One Army-er” or “Soldier of the One Last Army”. Warriors that have fallen in battle, and selected by the Valkyrie to fight against the forces of destruction during Ragnarok. Pejorative: Viking, Jarni; Plural: Einherjar

Galdar: a magical practice based on chants, words of power, secret tongues, etc.

Grave-Napper: derived from the tales that Dverge will hide from the Final Battle of Ragnarok by lying face down in open graves.

Huldafolk – A generic catch-all term for sentient non-humans.

Heir: Allfather’s Heir, Heir to the One Eyed, Child of the Hanged One, etc. a rare and powerful magic user distinguished by the fact that they know more than one form of magic.

Jarnmani/Jarni: “Iron Man” a reference to the Einherjar tendency to appear in towns equipped with ancient iron armor and weapons. Though Einheri come from all time-frames, including the contemporary, even a swashbuckling Musketeer or stone age mammoth hunter that finds himself in the Autumn West might be derided as a “Jarni.”

Jormungandr: The World Serpent, child of Loki.

Jotunn: a folk found through out all peoples and cultures, recognized by their great stature, and powerful physiques. Within the folk, there are those that share ancestry with a long forgotten people, they are known as Rimthursar, and possess a preternatural endurance for extreme weather. Jotunar range from large to colossal and vary in temperament as greatly as man. Pejorative: Giant, (Yeren in San Francisco); Plural: Jotunar.

Muspellsynir: Sons of Muspell, Fire Giants, entities of primordial destruction.

Mun engi madr odrom thryma: No man will have mercy on another.

Peep: Peeper, Peeps – from “P&P” which is itself from “Points and Pearls” a reference to the Alfar ears and the stereotype of wealth.

Ragnarok: “the fate of those who reign”. The death of the gods. The end of the world, the apocalypse.

Rimthursar: a bloodline of Jotunn that have a preternatural endurance for cold weather.

Runamal: a magical practice based on runes, signs, symbols, sigils, etc.

Seiðr: a magical practice based on alchemy, potions, salves, etc.

Skalmold: Sword Age

Skeggold: Axe Age

Skildnir ro Klofnir: Shields are sundered

Skroggr: Diminutive folk. Often known for the gray or green complexions, large noses, and beady sanguine eyes. They tend towards more urban areas, but as the saying goes “even a Skroggr finds cause to travel West.” Pejorative: Goblin, Gremlin. Plural: Skroggar

Troll: A people noted for their uncommon complexions, wide frames, and uncanny strength. Despite their inclusion in cultures throughout the world, Troll are exclusively carnivorous, and well reputed for their strong emotions. Pejorative: Drow, Ogre, Wappy, Orc; Plural: Troll

Trolldom: a term referring to unknown or uncontrolled magic or magical items.

Vanir: a race of gods that ruled the cosmos before the rise of the Aesir. At the end of Aesir-Vanir War, the peace was secured through the exchanging of voluntary hostages. Thus Freyr and Freyja came to be raised by the Aesir.

Vargr: Depending on context could mean “Wolf” – a particularly vicious or monstrous one at that ; or an obnoxiously aggressive individual of low moral character and not particularly keen intellect (eg. Shithead, dumbfuck, etc – there is a dimension of vulgarity and contempt that isn’t translated well). When referring to an animal it is the former, when referring to a person it is the latter. Hence, decent folks are called “Ulf” and not “Varg”.

Vargold: Wolf Age

Vaettr: A generic catch-all term for monsters and spirits. Plural: Vaettir

Vindold: Wind Age

Wappy: derived from the Mandarin “Hua Pi Gui” commonly used by the residents of San Francisco and surrounding environs.

Yggdrasil: The World Tree. The universe, the cosmos, Creation, reality. “The Terrible One’s Horse” a reference to Odin “riding” (hanging himself) on the tree.

The Heimdallsynir – Humans, Mankind, they have so many names for themselves that it is impossible to list them all, and if truth be told, hardly worth mentioning at all – tell stories of an asteroid striking the realm of Midgard and bringing unparalleled destruction, and near extinction of their race.

This is, of course, the foolish notion of a barbaric people who cling desperately to the mass delusion of empiricism.

The Gjallarhorn has been blown, even if the Heimdallsynir cannot feel the pressure of it’s sounding. The Last Army of the Hall of the Slain make for Vigrid, even if mankind’s instruments cannot count the footfalls of their march. Tell me this, O Scientists: What is the weight of a dream that sits heavy on your heart? What is the speed of a nightmare that sails ever closer to your shores?
Pg. 98

In my travels through Midgard, I have met with Dverge, Alfar, Troll and Jotunn of every clan. I have fought Draugr, Aptrgangr, Haugbuar, and Vættir of every stripe. But it was during the last Winter of Seven Winters Each of Seven Years with No Summer, that I met my first Einheri in Midgard.

Missouri is a simple land, of simple people, who live simple lives. It is hard to say what their animosity towards amphibians stems from, but they hunt them with an undaunted fervor. But, I digress.

It was in the simple whiskey town of Jollification, Missouri, that I came to know Thorkel Jarlaskald, who was Chosen in Serkland. It was from Thorkel Einheri that I first understood how all whom I had met in this cursed realm looked upon their world with glamoured eyes, and misbegotten memory.
Thorkel Einheri taught me that all those who had eaten of the golden apples of Idunn’s grove, or tasted the Mead of Poetry were not affected by the Ginnungagap. But those who had not enjoyed such privileges found their minds warped by supplemental effects that Surtr’s Sword had wrought against Midgard.

Those ungirded against the Yawning Void know not that they had once lived in other realms, that they were but expeditionists to Midgard, drawn to seek out the location of the Plains of Vigrid by the Gjallarhorn.

Their histories fade away, details softening, whole lifetimes slowly desaturate into oblivion, like waking from a dream, they have always lived here. The Sparks of Muspell, carried by Surtur’s Sword pass through Ginnungagap, their embers smote, and the resulting ash falls with the snows of the Fimbulvetr.

The Ashes of Creation make it so. They have always lived here. Their family homestead dates to before the Fimbulvetr.
Pg. 231

“They say that back in them ancient days with kings and knights, that was the Sword Age. Then we come to the New World, and cleared the forests and brought civilization to the savage, An Age of Axes t’what they call it now.

“We broke from the Old England Empire, – Like the Shattering of a Shield – they says.” The grizzled old bandit didn’t like to fancy himself a proper skald, but he knew a trick or two of holding a group mesmerized with the power of stories. Just had to keep talking while the boys got into position.

“Just ‘bout the time things seem to settle, fights done broke out like little whirlwinds here and there, over some something to do with thrallin’ folks. Best I can figure it must’ve been them damned Elven courts. The dust up is what they call the Wind Age, an as best as anyone knows, Murica was heading for out and out war with itself. The snake eatin’ its own tail. Brother fightin’ Brother, coulda been a bit nasty, such a nation so precariously holdin’ its own to turn in on itself like that. Well wasn’t nothing to be done for it though, and for better or worse, it never came to that.

“Twas the autumn of 1860 by the old reckoning. They call it the Sword of Surtur, them fellars in Europe do. Meteor, they say. Half the world burned, they say. The other half froze in the Fumble-Winter, what ever god carries the seasons, done fumbled them, yessiree. Ain’t got no one who knows for sure how long the winter lasted, ain’t but a bit of Troll magic that survived it any how, and without proper calendars them Elves was all but useless till the thaw.

“The thaw did come, boy howdy, didn’t now. Though them legends an’ ole camp trail stories say the before the Sword, a season was some 90 days or so.. ha! Imagine that a whole season passing in just a few months! Could’ve been, but don’t seem likely t’me. No sir, not likely t’me.

“The thaw came, an as you know, the winters gave way to summers, and the world done picked up, right were it left off, more or less….

“Out here in the great frontiers of the Western Territories, we ain’t got no truck with them Old Reckonin’ Calendars, y’all just picked right up on 1861 as soon as ya could, like y’all did’na just spend a few generation freezing to death.

“No sir, Out here, it’s the 15th year of the Age of the Wolf. An’ like a pack o’ hungry wolves, ain’t no man got mercy for wounded prey.

“So if you wouldn’t mind just placin’ your valuables in this here bag, we’ll be on our way, and your coach can finish it’s trip to Carson. But if’n you were thinking about being heroic, saving your lady friend there….well then, that big Troll here might have to toss a coin, choose between putting a bullet in ya, or casting a fireball. Hell.. he might even just eat ya.” The dusty old bandit spread his chapped lips in a rictus grin of tobacco stains.

The three gentlemen inside the stagecoach hurried to deposit their belongings into the bandit’s proffered satchel. The slight woman in the corner began to shake. It started as a minor tremor, Lady Yridel could feel the fires of the galdar coursing through her veins. The rage of a wounded bear, the anticipation of the hunting wolf. The words of power ignited in her mind with the fire-bright intensity of the Sword of Surtur.

Through clenched teeth the Elf hissed, “You know the stories, thief. Now hear the words!”

“Skeggold!” she bellowed with power and clarity. The sound and sight of the Troll’s blood spraying across the stage coach froze the talkative bandit in terror.

“Skalmold!” The Dverge’s horse at the back of the coach collapsed in shrieks of agony.

“Skildir ro klofnir!” The awestruck bandit dropped his bag of loot as bones in his arms shattered like dry twigs.

“Vindold!” The winds began to howl, “Vargold!” The sun went dark, as though consumed, and Yridel stepped from the coach, proud, powerful, a being of terrible destruction and beauty, heir to The One Eyed, an Elven Wizard in her might and rage, “Mun engi madr odrom thyrma…”

It all started with a conversation about post apocalyptic games set in historical periods. But what if the Apocalypse wasn’t just some random event? Sure it might be a giant asteroid hitting the earth.. but what if that asteroid wasnt just an asteroid? What if the cataclysm was more.. what if it was Ragnarok? And what if Ragnarok begins in 1860?