I am he who was born of shadow and ice. I am he who is born of the Niflheim. I am he who is thrust into the world of Muspellhiem, subected to flames uncomprehendable by human minds, and a light so searing, it threatens to cinder the tender flesh of the ice born creature.

 

The ancient cobbelstone path, docorated with the wear and wild forest growth of centuries, beat out under your feet. Your eyes shifted to the mythic trees about you, their vibrant emerald leaves peirceing the skies like the arms of loric giants. The twisting spires shed there cool glow across you, a ever shifting swirl of polar patchworks. A few yards off he beaten path you could here the arcane and subtle babbelings of a brook, its seamingly stone cut path flushing past yours. Your sence began to ring with a strange electircal tone, ever alarm in your body pulseing at once.

 

Ahead, only a few yards stood a man, or rather a stag man. His leather clad chest gave way to the well ekmpt and wirey fur of a stag. A pair of stately antlers stood at his brow. There height and pefect form would shame the mightiest of hunters. The smile that was etched across his lips was not as you anticipated. A warm smile a welcomeing smile. Slowly he removed from his leather jerkin, a long and intricate flute.

 

His playing was that of myth. The perfect note streamed through the air, sending small vibratioons of exitment up your spine. Your feet, completely unintentioaly, bagan to shift. A small jig being formed without intention. Soon others joined, all of which equally as bizzare as the deer man. Others like gray skinned men, only about child height. They were armed with minesing gear, a candles the kept on there wool hats. Antoher creaute, undistigushable in sex, as many of the smaller Sidhe are, that seamed to shift and swirl his body with the tones of the music. Women of such beauty and grace, they smelled deep of honey and clover, there wild, passionate, calming, moonlit eyes danced about you.

 

Your head span, your mind hurting. For years you were told that the fair folk were just stories, myths, and lies. But now, here, you were danceing with at least three dozen. Pulling away from the arm linked circle you tried to right your mind, you tried to make sence of it all, ut nothing did you frusterate finnaly came forth, "Your not real!"

 

And like that they weren't.

 

You felt a deep saddness well inside of you, a dark and painful lonliness like nothing could compare. Were they real? Were they here?

If so where did they go? Nothing could vanish into seamingly nowhere, could it?

 

Behind you a twig cracked, you turned praying to be proven wrong, praying to be granted a final glimpse of those strange people. And your prays were answered. You saw it, tall, gaunt gnareled and pasty face, topped with a large blood Red Cap, its club hit you hard against the neck, feeling as though it dislodged the entirety of your spine. You fell hard to the ground, time slowing and eventually ceaseing to exist. Were you dead?

 

You awoke.

 

You lay in a doorway. A dark and cool door way. No pain from your assailent, no pain from the world you left behind. Roliing over you saw the man, a handsome man. His body was tall and lithe, his eyes like that of infathomable pools of mercury. His hair was beams of un adulterated moon light. His clothes were old and ancient. SLowly he walked to you favoring his left leg.

 

"My name is Serugau, and you are welcome to join my shadow for the short time being, since the lord Kirinos, did bring oyu here. Please sit, drink, eat, and read. My library is down the hall to the left, past the statue of Memir. There you go. Most of those works are my own, but a few I amassed from different tomes from vendors found here and there. "

 

Turneing the youthful man sat slwoly at an acneint table carved with a varity of faces that you have never seen, but already knew. Slowly you studied the wood carvings quitly speaking the names of the devine figures; Hiemdal, Wotan, Donnor, Morgan Le Fey, Diana, Kali, Vishnu, Jahovah, Yawe, Aries, Bast, Thoth, Ba Xian, Jin Jia, these are only to name a small fraction of the plethra of figures. Getnaly he remove a large tabacco pipe from his breast pocket, stuffed it, then lit it with a stone and peice of metal. The smoke smelled great, a gentla blend of vanilla and cinnemon, with a subtle hint of mint.

 

And so we begin, you start in the begining. The void, the Ginnungagap.  

 

May the wind be at your back, and sun on your face.

Smote it be!