Angels of the Snow : Volume one of the Pooka Chronicles.

Chapter Two: By The Mother

Gabri'el stared through the ornate leaded glass window set deep within the mammoth stone wall of the mountain citadel Asgard. The view over the city of Vanheim was her favorite, and she would often sit here on the comfy window seat, just staring for hours at the tall ship-shaped clouds traversing the sky blue ocean above the city's red clay roofed tops. Glancing down, she could see the Vanir going about their daily business in the shadow of the great gate of the Bifröst Bridge. Asgard looked as though it was connected to Vanheim by a stone leashed rainbow. The city of Vanheim was built on the edge of a deep cliff faced chasm that was hewn from solid rock over millennia by the river Elivágar. Behind the city was an expanse of primordial forest bordering the windswept Arcadian plains, the home of the Aesir. Even without her Elohim eyes, Gabri'el could easily see the craggy feet of the towering snow capped Himinbiarga Mountains from the Citadel's great height.

Staring out the window, Gabri'el could see no signs of the incursions that her scouts had reported. Turning away from the window, she looked down at the sheaf of reports in her right hand and sighed. How long has it been? How many millenia have passed? Dropping the sheaf of reports next to her on the window-seat, she stood up and pulled a great, wide-bladed broad sword free from it's silver rune covered dark brown leather scabbard, attached to a matching wide belt around her waist. The sword gave off a blazing, eye piercing light, casting away all shadows from the tapestry covered stone walls with such force that the chisel marks of the Master Masons could be clearly seen.

Gabri'el could feel the power of the sword's Elohim Magiks course through her right arm and surge throughout her entire body, until she too, shone with the same radiant blazing white light. 

She whispered it's name, "Claíomh na Seirbigh." The Sword of Doom. "It has been a long time old friend." 

Holding the burning blade before her face, she hefted the great sword in her right hand and swung it back and forth. The concussion of the blade passing through the air tore at the ancient fabric tapestries hanging on the stone walls. With each arc they flapped and strained against the wrought iron rods that held them as she cleaved the air before her. Smiling to herself, she stopped and slid Seirbigh gently back into it's scabbard, and the room darkened again as stray pages of her scout's reports fluttered slowly down around her silver-armored feet. Bending down , she started to pick up the pages of paper scattered around her tower office like so many autumn leaves, when she heard someone pounding on the door. Before she could move or say a word, the door flew open.

"Is everything all right! Ah.... look at you! Just what have you been doing in here?" Said Enoch, beginning to smirk. 

Behind him in the hallway stood two armed guards bristling with weaponry at the ready. Enoch turned and waved the guards away. "I see that we need to get you another scribe to handle your paperwork for you," he said, grabbing the sturdy metal handle of the thick iron bound wooden door and closing it.

"You caught me lost in my own thoughts, replied Gabri'el as she picked herself off the Vanir woven carpeted floor.

"It looks more like you were visited by a cyclone," Enoch remarked looking around the room.

He stood there by the door silently watching Gabri'el as she scooped armfuls of the loose pages of her scout reports. He knew better than to offer his help so he waited. Walking over to her great hulk of a desk, she leaned over and as neatly as possible dumped the sheaves of papers on its already cluttered surface, then turned and faced him. Gabri'el stood there with a reflective look on her face, as the sunlight arced through her tower office in beams made thick by the swirling dust in the air.

The light played on her long tressed blond hair that framed her prominent cheekbones. Her clear blue eyes were lost in thought under a determined, unlined brow. Her nose sat still above her full red lips as her strong jaw involuntarily clenched. Gabri'el was tall and powerfully built, 8 feet by 3, with a weight so dense that no horse could carry her. Enoch had never seen her without her armor, the silver plated, rune-embossed breastplate, with full arms as well, along with her leggings. And of course never without SeirBigh hanging from her side. No matter the weather or temperature, her blood red cloak remained attached to her shoulders in two clasps of burnished gold. She'd be a formidable sight to any, he thought. But the large white folded wings that sprouted from her back marked her as Elohim, and even "lesser" Elohim like himself, respected, admired, and loved her unconditionally. She was devotion incarnate.