Throne and the Bear

Fimblewinter- Part I

"WITHIN THE TWISTING TUNNELS OF TIME,

WE HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME APART FROM OURSELVES

FOR NOT REACHING THE END

FOR FEAR KEEPS US IN THE DARK

AND SO MAN HAS NEVER LEFT THE CAVE"

-"A MYSTERIOUS TRAVELLER"

Dreams of thunder and lightning bless those born from the dark but what of us who know not of that sight? What did they have to fear he had always wondered. There in Midgard they knew not of the primordial dark, after all how could they? The gods had gifted them with fire. The feeling was foreign. Still, the act of hearing a mere thunderclap outside felt foreign itself. Was it the dark that was foreign, or was it the light they tried to use to extinguish it the body that was foreign?

"Rune, stop your goggling and help your sister with the fire.", a drunken man retorted, barely holding up a mug of mead, as he swayed from side to side. He smelled of alchohol and bodily odours which no man should have to smell.

A young boy sneered at this. His father had always been far more straightforward than him. If a cave was pitch-black he would say light a fire while, I wonder how deep the cave goes. Not that it mattered much, it was still just a cave after all.

Picking up the bundle of firewood by his bedside the young boy walked towards a pale girl on the far left of the wooden house. It was Freya, otherwise known as his sister. "Your firewood.", the boy grumbled, his sight focused elsewhere. It might not have been the friendliest greeting but she and him had always been this way, even as children. Besides with the look in her eye it was clear she didnt care one way or the other. She merely scoffed and carried on feeding the fire.

"Rune stop your chattering and come and help your mother.", father burped from under his breath. Another thing father seemed to want me to do. Rune swore that his father didn't have legs of his own with how often he ordered me around. Though thinking about it he wouldn't even be surprised if he didn't, the man's belly kept that concealed real well.

Father was a short, potbellied middle aged man with a scruffy beard and even scruffier locks on his hair. Well, what was left of his receding hairline anyways. He had a bald spot right in the centre of his head. Though no one dared say anything as he was so proud of it too, which is more than he could say about his son. Not that any clansman could, despite his short stature and build his strength could be compared to that of a horse.

Though not much of that supernatural strength seemed to be passed on though. Grunting the boy got up from where his sister was and made his way to his mother, grabbing the sack of spare firewood laid at her footing. She didn't say anything but he knew what she wanted of him; he knew knew what it meant.

The boy reached for a small sachel which he flung on his shoulder before going out into the icy snow. Snow bellowed as he stepped out of the wooden cabin he called home and out to the snowy winter lands. It was freezing. Rune could feel a deep chill passing over him as he walked through the snow, his legs knees deep as he forced my way forward. His teeth chittered under the cold air. It was going to be a long trip.

He had a singular focus; get to town. He ignored the cold and kept on marching, he did this for the first few hundred steps but that was until he felt something, or someone, tug at his leg. For a second he he contemplated hitting the thing with his sachel and then running away. In a place like this one could not afford to let your guard down. So was the way of Midgard. But again poor thing wouldn't be the word he'd use to describe the beast right beside. Rune's face bcame one that was unamused. It was just Bjorn. His pet bear. Almost two winters ago him and sister found him injured in a cave and nursed him back to health.