Nifflheim

Forest of Blades Pt. 1

The thick, copper leaves slice into my face as I run behind the others into the dense fog of the forest. The Nidhogg's cries grow feint the deeper we delve until the only thing to be heard is the stomping of our feet. A shallow stream travels alongside us. Its steady trickle keeps pace with our escape like it had something of its own worth fleeing from.

Ahead of me, Iver sharply raises his hand, "Let's rest here."

The group, now remembering they have lungs, pant and cough dragging air back down their throats. My airways tense and throb from the warm air pouring in that is such a drastic shift from the previous bitter cold.

I lay down with my back pressed up against one of the trees. My body not even covering a quarter of its trunk. The thick canopy of leaves several meters above only allows slivers of light to pass through. Each beam reflects on the dense fog that lines the forest floor. Fresh soil encircles the tree as if it had just been planted there but was surely impossible. Given its size, it would need to be thousands of years old. 

The others behind me are restless. An exhausted expression had sunken into each of their faces. I slam my fist into the base of the tree and my knuckles crack colliding into each other. Damnit. If only I would have done something we wouldn't be in this sorry state.

"We have to go back for him," Langley demands gesturing back to the castle.

Bjorn scoffs, "What do you mean child? I am right here. Conqueror of dragons!" He says raising his hands above his head.

"He isn't talking about you Bjorn," Frode answers disheartened, "Can you go wash off in the stream and let the adults talk. You smell like you rolled in ox shit."

Iver quickly interrupts, not allowing the usual clash between Frode and Bjorn, "Will you please just wash off in the stream. We need to clean off the key anyways."

Bjorn gives one last glare and turns in a huff. The insides of the Nidhogg fling to the ground and stain it green. Our run here did nothing to clean off Bjorn and it would be a miracle if the tiny stream is able to help even just a little.

"Haralda, would you help him with the key while the rest of us attempt to set up camp?" Iver continues. 

Haralda reluctantly follows after Bjorn while the rest of us begin clearing a space to rest, silent, not wanting to focus on Bo's demise. Our legs stir the fog on the forest floor like a large pot of stew. The ripples of our steps crash into the bases of the trees. The copper leaves that lay astray bend instead of crumbling under our weight and leave thin cuts on our hands as we brush them aside.

At the stream's edge Haralda is watching over Bjorn clean himself off. I'm surprised Iver allowed Bjorn to carry the key. I wouldn't be surprised if his indelicate hands crushed our only way out of here as we ran. If I was looking for the key as long as Iver has, I wouldn't be able to allow it out of my sight. It was difficult just now to watch it leave towards the stream.

Haralda and Bjorn return from the stream just as the few beams of light leave the canopy. A small, blue fire sparks from the few sticks and leaves we gathered in the center of our cleared area. At least some semblance of time and order reaches the forest, unlike the shore. Bjorn, while not clean, had significantly fewer beast insides dripping from him, however, parts of his skin remained green as if the monster had permanently tattooed his body. The rest of us sit quietly around the fire until Frode breaks the silence.

"Must be one of the gods miracles you didn't find a way to drown in the stream. Gods know your  ass doesn't floats," he says attempting to rouse a chuckle from the group to no avail.

"Bite me, old man," Bjorn bites back slumping his body down against one of the trees beside me.

Iver eyes glare at Bjorn. "And the key?"