Stories Of Zoltah

Azrin

A vast, sprawling plain, strewn with dunes of white sand, stretched far and wide into an endless abyss, the black sky above a canvass of twinkling stars. Up ahead, a single oak tree stood tall, its many branches rising like flames into the night sky, while its thick trunk heaved and contracted as though drawing deep breaths. Azrin, the oldest of Odin's sons had fallen into a deep slumber and found himself transported here – still wearing his short-sleeved, leather robes, with a belt of dragon-hide tied around his slender waist. An iron pendant in the shape of a skull was affixed to the left side of his chest, representing a gifted enchanter not to be trifled with, while his bare feet stood weightless upon the sand. Gentle gusts of wind occasionally blew across the plain and tossed his flowing, black hair, (which was braided into a single lock reaching down to his waist); bringing it dancing sideways in the air behind him. With deathly pale skin, deep-set, grey eyes, and thin shrivelled lips, Azrin looked as though he had succumbed to the grave more than once and somehow resurrected to tell the tales. Curiously, he stepped forward upon the sand, glancing up at the stars and occasionally casting both malicious eyes to his sides, keeping both of his thin, tendinous arms clasped behind him. As though in the blink of an eye, under the shade of the towering tree up ahead, an equally impressive figure suddenly appeared. Clad in silvery armour that shone near-purple, the bulky silhouette was almost as tall as the tree it stood next to and certainly more than thrice the size of a mortal man. Azrin's expressionless face aberrantly stretched with a widening smile at the sight, as both of his eyes remained transfixed into the distance. He took another step forward and somehow found himself already next to the figure, whose sallow skin and solemn face told of a being tormented.

"Heimdall!"Azrin said with a hint of surprise, "you received my message?" He glanced up and down at the sentry, fixing his armoured body with child-like wonder. A smooth, ornate helmet with a visor revealing Heimdall's longing, fire-red eyes rested upon his head, while dangling from around his waist, he wore a single golden horn as extensive as one of Azrin's long arms. With a weak smile, Heimdall backed towards the tree, where a whisk of sand spiralled out from the ground and morphed into a makeshift stool. The sentry planted himself firmly down upon it and slouched forward, bringing himself level with Azrin.

"Of course I received your message," drawled Heimdall in a shuddering voice that sounded as though he would break into tears at any moment. "It is not often that the essence of a stag is seen in the skies... tell me, how did you know how to call me?" he enquired, fixing Azrin with a searching glare that would have unsettled a lesser celestial. Standing his ground and utterly unaffected, Azrin stood tall, chest out and declared: "The crypts in Valhalla! I searched for months and months, perhaps even years, until I found the prime secta..."

Heimdall raised a brow and drew himself up straight.

"Yes... it was located centuries ago by my father on one of his excursions..." said Azrin, noticing the baffled look upon Heimdall's face.

"Odin has always been a glutton for knowledge," he said following an impressed chuckle. "That manuscript was supposed to have been hidden away far from prying eyes..."

"And yet he found it..." interjected Azrin. "You did not know this?" he went on, with an air of astonishment. The sentries were charged with keeping watch over all of Zoltah, and all events, whether grand or small, public or secret were seen by them. Surely they would have noticed the king of Asgard descend upon the hidden shrines and stumble across their ancient manuscript.

"I take it you have not yet read all of its contents?" Heimdall re-gained his composure and said, to which Azrin shook his head slightly.

"Had you finished," the sentry went on, raising both armoured arms and crossing them over his massive chest, "...you would have come across where it speaks of a day known as Ragnarok, which comes about only twice each year."