Life flowed back through Majvoc’s body. It was a tsunami of pain, furiously pumping its way across his nerves. Every muscle seemed to convulse, cramping and releasing. He opened his mouth and gasped for air. The gulp of muggy air tasted burnt in his mouth and seemed not to quench his need to breathe.
Majvoc opened his eyes slowly, feeling the pain start to slowly fade away from his body. He was lying on the ground surrounded by mounds of snow. More snow. It was warmer here at least than from were he had come. It was cold, still, but his blood didn’t freeze and the sun’s rays tickled warmly on his skin.
His skin.
Majvoc sat up and pulled up his right sleeve, exposing his dark, withered arm to the air. It was the skin of a draugr. Was he still in the land of the dead?
As if to answer his question, a small bird chirped happily from a nearby tree. No, this was the land of the living. But there was something wrong in the air. It wasn’t Miðgarðr air. There was still the stale tang of Niflheim.
He traced the contours of his face, feeling the teeth marks Níðhöggr had left. That’s where this disease of death had started and the land of the dead had taken the rest. The skin of his face was rough and sunken to one side, while the other was normal fine and healthy.
Majvoc took an assessment of himself. He still had his clothes, and they were keeping him warm enough. He had his pack, with what little supplies he had left. Although, it had been a long time since he had felt the pangs of hunger. Around his torso, the bandoleer of giant’s hair still kept him warm and safe. He had his bow too, and a full quiver of arrows. The arrows were poorly made and amateurish, with chipped heads and uneven flights. Another of Majvoc’s stolen goods was the flute he kept in his pack. Perhaps he would write a ballad one day, of his adventures. Not that anyone would believe him.
Now the pain subsided, Majvoc surveyed his surroundings.
There was snow.
And trees.
So, it was likely to be anywhere in the North of Midgard.
He was standing now, looking down onto a lake below his vantage on a hilltop. It was the same dried lake of Hvergelmir, dusty and barren. Along the abandoned coastline there were the smoking remains of a fire. A campfire. Nestled around it were a few shuffling shapes that had begun to move in the morning light.
It couldn’t be.
Majvoc began to pick his way down the hill, eager to meet with his companions once again. But he was not alone. In the skies, riding on the cold air like a thousand horses came the rumbling of thunder. Then a might clap, sundering the skies apart as mist clouded the arrival of a beast. Níðhöggr the dragon was here.
<<OOC - Thought I would throw a bit of action in while we are still in Niflheim. Do or don't engage with Níðhöggr, but it could be interesting to have him lord over us as we try to find a way to the Bifröst?

I interpreted us to be on the fringes of Niflheim or on the other side of the Gjallarbrú rather than the land of the dead proper. Further, the contradiction on if there is water in Hvergelmir was intentional, as I wanted the water to not exist for the dead (Majvoc in this case). If anything needs retroactively changed, lemme know.>>

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