Lussi

Jarngrimr lazed in bed with Yolanda and I, us three brides content as a vicious wind rocked the ship captain’s berth like Hyndla shoving Balder’s funeral pyre off to Helheim. The ghost of Nanna, his bright armed bride, wept, and the call of the Underworld drew near.

“The River of Knives, Nastrond, is at hand,” Jarnja hissed, her fangs and red-black coals of eyes glimmering in the anemic Vidagol light.

We ventured to the prow, and crossed on over

Into the dark

Mist.

Gullinkambi illuminated the Strait of Bone that surrounded Vidagol. He crowed loudly, heralding dusk’s descent. The sun blotted out like a stain, the ghosts of draugr clawed at Naglfari from the tides, brilliant and shining like pond gunk turned opal.

“Quick!” Jarngrimr said, but suddenly, Loki and Sigyn appeared in the mist, glowing like molten flame, their red blonde hair a fulsome Saint Elmo’s fire