WOOLHAVEN

The cold harshness of winter spreads across all of Midgard, realm of the simple life for mortals. Packs usually stay together in these harsh weathers but for some awful reason, the pups of Odin: Baldur and Thor were out alone, hunting for something, sport. Baldur sniffed the air, his snout twitching as he catches the smell of something he found disgusting.

“Brother… something waits within the winds of Mid-“

Suddenly an arrow is fired at Baldur’s snout, tearing right through his flesh and leaving his mouth completely split apart. Thor saw this and using his “mighty hammer”, throwing it at the heritics who dared to attack the sons of the All-Father. They were lizards, apart of the Scales Clan, vikings who bared scales and sought beauty from the dead thus they harness the arts of ice and necromancy. Baldur screams as he clutches his now mangled snout.

“Brother… help me, it hurts! Brother!”

As Baldur screamed, his pleas for help fell upon deaf ears as another member of the Scales Clan, a general dubbed Loki, he grins down at Baldur and grins.

“Oh Baldur… you really think Odin will hear your pathetic pleas for mercy?”

“Loki? You betray us for these Scaled Bastards? You are a daughter of Odin! Goddess of Asgard, why have you done this? To me, to our fami-“

Loki grabs her scepter and runs it deep within Baldur’s skull, taking one of his many wolf teeth as a trophy of the fresh clean kill. Thor was too distracted by combating the Lizard Soldiers that he didn’t even notice the death of his own brother. Resulting in Loki and the Scaled Clan escape back to Helheim via their portable Bifröst leaving Thor with the dead remains of Baldur.

One year after the horrors left to plague the Nine Realms lied the Realm of the Lambs, Jötunheim in complete stillness, completely unaware of the wraths yet to come was a young lamb, young and naive as the rest of the flock, his name was Atrea. Currently he was walking across the plains of their spiritual kingdom, he wanted to hunt but the way of the Lambs prevented anyone from hunting within the Realm thus his uncle and the General, Pök offered to take him to Midgard. Hidden in a bush, Atrea lookd back at his stoic ram uncle.

“So… just fire when the Drweller is distracted?”

“Exactly M’Boy! Now fire!”

Atrea nods, now armed with an bow and an single arrow, he aimed his arrow toward the Drweller, firing and as the wood, steel and feather cut through the breeze, it took the beast’s life away. The young lamb and the griff ram rush down to their fresh kill, with Atrea placing his hoof against the beast’s neck.

“Isn’t this a little cruel? This deer of Alfheim didn’t choose to become a mindless animal…”

“Aye M’boy, it be a fate I wouldn’t wish upon any of our enemies but this deer chose to step into the Light. Now he might as well be named Dinner.”

“It’s just not fair… to us nor his poor creature.”

Atrea said as Pök helped him carry the carcass into a secret passage back to Jötunheim via their Bifröst, accidentally allowing certain clans to find the two and their sacred haven. The clan in question were the Dwellers, those whom stepped within the Light of Alfheim. Their growls and pants went upon deaf ears as they too were slain by the Asgardian Wolves.

In Woolhaven, the Realm of Spiritual Enlightenment, the souls of their dead who fought for rhe Haven’s safety and secrecy now live amongst their living descendants, never truly moving onward and it came from the work of one: a old Lamb who sought for peace named YinGa, currently she was meditating but it was interrupted by Pök and Atrea.

“Å, mitt kjære barnebarn, what brings you to my tent at this timing? Has your uncle been feeding you since… the incident?”

“Elder, do not remind the boy of the tragedy, it will only poison his mind with thoughts of rage when they should be focused upon other task such as hunting.”

“Hva? Pök, din drittsekk! You know it forbidden to hunt in Woolhaven, if you preformed these actions of heritics in Midgard, I’ll apologize but please. War does not repair a broken boy.”

Pök snorts, as a Ram he never saw himself get along with the Elder’s pacifist ways, it just wasn’t realistic to him, he ushered Atrea away from the tent, leading him toward two wooden gravestones and embedded within a nearby boulder was a two-handed battle axe with a double-sided crescent head, featuring intricate Norse runes and glyphs carved by the fallen parents of the Lamb. Atrea looks at the axe and asks Pök.

“When do I inherit Father’s axe.”

“When you grow into your role, M’boy.”

He always hated that answer, what did it even mean? ‘When you grow into your role.’ Then what was his role? Atrea didn’t know but it only encouraged him to stifle rage within his body to use later. Bells began to ring from the entrance of Jötunheim, something had snuck its head within. Pök rushes toward rhe entrance only to see a messager of the Gods, a lowly wolf named Heimdalla, stepping forward, she jabs her blade into the dirt of Woolhaven before speaking, her voice filled with sternness.

“I deliever a message from the All-Father, and I believe it avoids the end of everything you Lambs hold dear. Simply put, my father, Odin, seeks your weath of knowledge within the spirit, teach him what he desires and he shall leave your realm.”

“And if we don’t bow down to the All-Father like dogs?”

Heimdalla sighs, snapping her fingers which summons forth Valkyries from Asgard downward to strike the will of Odin down the throats of Woolhaven. The bloodshed began as the winged-soldiers attacked but Pök through his bare fists began to tear at their wings, slamming their carcasses against their living sisters before unleashing his rage in a form of untamed power of Rams’ Rage. He effortlessly chased Heimdalla and her army away from their den and thus Woolhaven was safe once again.

Pök, unsatified with the battle’s outcome ignores the crowd of cheering lambs and heads to his cabin just north of the Elder’s Tent and equips two blades embued with the fires of Muspelheim thus dubbed the Blades of Muspelheim. Now armed with the Blades, he walks back to where Atrea was, grieving to his fallen parent, taking the Axe from the rock, Hel’s Wrath was now holstered behind his back.

“Let’s go, M’boy.”

“Where? Grandmama is clearly stressed out now and I seriously doubt she’d permit travel between Realms now.”

Pök nods, but doesn’t take his nephew’s worries into consideration but handing the young lamb a bow and quilver filled with arrows before using a Bifröst to tear open another portal in the fabric of Yggdrasi, urshing Atrea within before follow himself for another Crusade.