Gods and mortals

Crowns and swords

A.N.
I'm on fire!
Excuse the pun, I just couldn't help myself.
Anyways, I'm sure most of you will have a pretty good idea of what is to come in this chapter, given the picture (spoilers: large, fire giants)
But let us continue on forwards!

Muspelheim, asgardian war camp...

Brogr sighed deeply, he was tired after a long, exhausting day of fighting and patrolling.

He was tired of everything to be honest, this dammed war most of all. He wanted to leave.
A few months had passed since their arrival, and the base had long been completed since then. Tall, thick stone walls surrounded the triquetra shaped fort, and a good chunk of tents had been replaced with actual buildings and barracks that housed einherjar and supplies.

But they, who of course were the recruits, were not granted that privilege, as they were stationed on the most external part of the camp, where the luxuries were much less common. They still slept in tents, and could only afford to take a bath three times a week, compared to the ten times a regular einherjar could.

The place was seemingly turning more and more into a city, the perpetual noise increasing with each passing sunrise.

The smith still didn't understand how this realm of fire would ever become a realm like those of the empire, but he had long since resigned himself to accepting his own ignorance, content to be left to his own thoughts.

The past times had been particularly rough on the cohort: out of the original sixty eight members, thirty one remained, less than half.

They were always given scouting duty, and it wasn't surprising that they were frequently attack. Their leader Steinthor had been killed in the last skirmish, and Eywind had been selected to take his pace. It was a particular choice, one that did not make much sense given that there better qualified recruits, but there had been whispering that his father, captain Hrok the Red had had a say in it and influenced the vote.

Things seemed as if they were going well: the generals assured the armies that they were winning the war, and that explained why they were always pushing further into the heart of the lands of the fire giants. Word had also spread that a few forts were being built to the north of their location, away from the region of control of Surtur, who was at their south. This war camp was the first line of attack for the empire, and should it fall then the others behind it would take its place.

The sad truth of this reality was the fact that the smith had all but accepted his demise; not that he didn't want to live, but he had grown accustomed to ever increasing possibilities of death upon riding into battle.
And he hadn't seen Dunfjall since their first battle. He had given up on seeing him once more.

Just today, he had received a large cut on the back, a flesh wound that was easily healed by the healers at the camp, but that still meant that he was to be bedridden for the next couple of days. He didn't complain about it.

The blacksmith thought about his predicament, staring at the blank texture of the ceiling of his tent, unwavering and utterly boring. The air inside the enclosed space was better, and this allowed him to breathe easier, and his eyes didn't burn as much as they did outside.

His body was littered with more scars now: the one on his right leg and arm, the one on his shoulder, the new one on his back, the cheek, and the one on the side of his head, which had nicked the very tip of his earlobe. But none of them were as evident as the missing pinky finger on his left hand.

Brogr was glad that the injury didn't cost more of his digits, and he was especially glad that it was his non dominant hand to be wounded, but it was still unsettling. He didn't know if it would affect his work at the forge... that was if he ever returned.