“Hello, Arron!” Heimdall greeted.

Arron waved, smiling ear to ear. “Hello, Heimdall!”

On his approach, Arron was please to find his rope sling dangling right where he left it. He kicked at it, moving the sides forward until they were close to the deity’s boots.

Heimdall appeared amused by his antics. “Are you determined to try again then?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“You know that rope doesn’t have the strength to bind me?”

“I do.”

Heimdall nodded, setting himself for Arron’s next attempt.

“Before that, there’s a question I should have considered before now,” Arron said, sobering for a moment.

He looked off into the distance, and Heimdall relaxed his stance the longer Arron took to gather his thoughts and school his emotions.

“You can see a butterfly one-hundred million miles away. You can see across the worlds. Does that mean you can see my Bella?”

Though Arron’s voice nearly cracked, hope radiated from him. Sadness wrinkled the corners of Heimdall’s eyes.

“I know you seek Bella, your wife. I have watched your trials and tribulations as you have journeyed along your path. But no, hero. I have not seen the Bella you seek.”

Arron had expected as much. Just another small disappointment to shrug off.

“Hey, Heim, what is that?” Arron asked, pointing to where he was looking.

Heimdall, confused, turned. “I do not see any—”

Arron sprinted for the gap between Heimdal’s legs.

“Tricksy!” Heimdal cried.

The expected wave of force erupted outward, knocking Arron from the bridge.

He managed to take out five Einherjar with his Seismic Slam in that fall. Timing it just right, he propelled himself forward into a roll and dispersed the force of his reentry enough that the pain wasn’t crippling.

A warrior closed in while Arron was parrying a blow, and a low swing cut his Achille’s tendon. The crippling blow kept him from reaching the rope. His leg no longer supported his weight and the excruciating pain almost made him pass out. Thankfully, the axe through his neck that followed was clean, and sent him to respawn without any of the ligament tearing, bone crunching sensation.

Eighteen times he tried to pass Heimdal. Eighteen times he fell among the Einherjar and battled toward the rope, getting closer and closer with each attempt.

Eighteen more times he forced down the fear, ignored the pain screaming from his body, threatening his focus, his drive, and if he was honest… his sanity.

And he could end the torment. All he had to do was turn his Pain Tolerance back on. That thought lurked in the shadows of his fear, whispering to him. Tempting him…

And alongside those whispers rose a familiar comfort: Bella needed him.

He would not give in.

The time with the Einherjar was literal torture, physically and mentally. But with each try, the pain began to sink into who he was.

The fury and bloodlust found their place beside his determination.

With each passage through the Einherjar… he felt more… himself.

“Nice swing, Ødger!” Arron shouted to the warrior who had just attempted to take his head off with a dane axe. Ducking under the blow, Arron did a quick double step, slamming his shoulder under Ødger’s ribs, throwing him to the ground. “Gotta watch your footwork though!” Inside the long weapons reach and standing over his fallen form, Arron smiled as he brought Mule overhead.

“Oh, damn. I’ll do that next time!” Ødger called right before Arron’s hammer caved in his barrel chest, sending blood rocketing out his mouth.

“Three-sixty Vision!” Bjørn called, sticking a dagger into Arron’s side and locking his arm around the torso of the larger, now wounded hero.

Arron growled against the pain and reached over, grabbing the man’s head. His crazed, bloodshot eyes locked on the new foe’s.

Bjørn smiled into those eyes. The promise of death immediate and powerful. The warrior pulled out his dagger and Arron forced his thumbs into the man’s eye sockets, viscera squirting past his hands as he gouged the cavities. Bjørn slammed his dagger home again and again, screaming all the while.

Locked together, the two men pushed themselves past the limitations of a mortal body as they continued their attacks until their bodies gave out.

“Nice finish, Bjørn,” Arron called as he faded back to the Valkyrie’s cave.

“You too, Arron,” the man returned, his voice floating down a long tunnel of darkness.

***

On attempt twenty-three, Erik, a bald warrior who also wielded a massive hammer, showed him the error of overcommitting with Mule’s great swings. The resulting shattered fingers were especially excruciating.

By the twenty-sixth attempt he touched the rope. Overwhelmed with excitement, he fell to yet another call of “360 Vision!” and a spear through the base of his skull.

There were seven more harrowing attempts before he managed to grab the rope again.

Attempt thirty-four began in a similar way. Arron hit the ground with his Seismic Slam, knocking the Einherjar back from his point of impact, buying himself a few moments to leverage. Instead of battling his way to his goal—every foot of progress bought with smashed skulls and drops of blood—he simply ran.

Arron sprinted at top speed, trying to eat as much distance as he could before the warriors caught up to him. He wove his way through the Einherjar, jumping over prone bodies, knocking aside spear thrusts in his flight toward the dangling rope under the Bifrost.

He made it so close, within ten feet of his goal, before he was overwhelmed by the meat grinder.

Arron refused to be stopped again. He laid into the warriors surrounding him with power and fury. Pent-up frustration was released through bloodlust and a newfound vigor for battle. His technique had improved like an iron through a forge, and this new need for violence blended with Mule’s hunger, as step by step he and his friend reaped the harvest of these Einherjar. These like-minded brethren. These kin.

They fell like wheat before him.

A spear thrust through the leg was ignored, shrugged off as a problem for another time. Dozens of cuts and bruises flowered across his body.

The pain was an unending torrent, a mind breaking flood, an ever-present companion.

But he would not be stopped.

Touching the rope, he activated Seismic Slam, sending the warriors flying, gaining scant seconds to climb, making it just out of reach.

Arron wrapped his leg around the rope, pinching his knees to take the weight from his hands and allow himself a second of well-deserved rest. He hung his head and took deep breaths, enjoying this moment. He’d made it.

Below him, a rhythmic thumping drew his attention.

Bjørn, standing tall on the ground of Valhalla, pounded his chest with a closed fist, looking up at Arron, his crazed face breaking into a smile. Nearby, other Einherjar joined in his rhythm, beating their chests in a steady cadence.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic tone conveyed everything they needed to say. In those impacts were camaraderie, kinship, and respect.

A cheer rose up. Yells of approval ripping forth from sweaty throats as the warriors beat their chests and pumped their fists, shouting their congratulations in a wordless roar.

Arron smiled, raising his own fist to beat twice on his chest.

The warriors screamed their approval and, almost as one, turned for the mead hall. Laughter and congratulations floated up, at odds with the violence of moments before as they walked toward their feast. An unexpected feeling washed over Arron. Headed for the mead hall were warriors he respected. Fighters, men and women, who allowed him to release the rage bottled inside. They had stood against that beast within him, the savage violence he kept caged. They had stood in the face of that monster and smiled, asking for more.

He really wanted to raise a glass with that battle hardened family.

But Bella needed him.

Turning from the opulent valley of war, Arron focused on the task at hand. This was the hard part and it didn’t exactly play to his strengths.

Tightening his grip, Arron let himself hang from the rope, looking like Tarzan from those old books, and with a grunt, he began kicking his feet. As before, he began to swing. Back and forth, his kicks propelling him higher and higher.

Heimdall could see one-hundred million miles outside of Asgard. Arron was hoping he might miss something sneaky happening right behind him. But for that to happen, Heimdall needed to think Arron was knocked off the bridge. Expecting Arron to come from respawn was key. No way was he going to just stand there if Arron simply climbed down the rope and started swinging.

So, for thirty-four rounds of dismemberment and death, pain beyond measure and the temptation of release, Arron had greeted Heimdall, fell to fight the Einherjar and battled toward the hope dangling just outside of his reach.

Little by little, the swings grew longer, the cliff face marking the entrance to Asgard growing larger and larger in his view.

And then he could reach.

He held his breath as he grabbed a hand hold on the stony wall. Praying that his grip would hold, that the stones wouldn’t give way and draw the god’s attention. That he would go unnoticed.

Each gap in the cliff face and tumbling pebble held the promise of discovery while he climbed, desperately trying to be quiet, refusing to look down at the dizzying drop. Until finally he emerged no more than ten feet behind Heimdall’s heel.

Arron froze. Hardly breathing. Not daring to move, expecting the god to turn and kick him at any moment.

Minutes went by before he built up the nerve to creep toward the entrance.

Having not taken the advice of his friend, Arron’s Stealth ability was still non-existent. His body was contorted into a deep hunch, his feet lifted high above the ground to keep himself from kicking anything and drawing attention. He looked like the cartoons from classic shows as he crept into the city of the gods.

New Skill – Stealth

You are now able to sneak when the need arises.

Slightly quieter than a train!

With a long exhale, Arron pumped his fist in the air. His plan worked!

With a loud whoop, he jumped in the air, spinning with joy at the new Skill and his success.

“Intruder!”

The booming voice was so loud, the lizard part of his brain took over out of fear of drawing attention.

Forcing his head to turn, Arron caught the angered face of a fifteen-foot man nearly as wide as he was tall. Bare chested, the man wore wolf skins around his neck and shoulders, secured by long lines of leather straps into a makeshift cowl. Leather cords hung from the cowl, each decorated with a trinket or bauble. Skulls, teeth and gemstones tinkled among the decorations on his beard, drawing attention and awe.

An enormous club the size of a semitruck was suspended in the air by his only remaining arm. Arron was able to see the man’s huge smile just before that club smashed him flat.

You Have Died!

Respawning at last selected respawn point.

Ouch. That one hurt.

Arron couldn’t move, his mind in shock.

He’d died plenty of times since turning off his Pain Tolerance. Fighting the Einherjar was violent, brutal and bloody. It was the potential intensity that had long since been forgotten. Being ripped in half by a zombie for instance, was dulled in the shadows of memory. But this? This was the first time he suffered such immense bodily injury all at once, with his Pain Tolerance off.

For the briefest moment, every bone in Arron’s body had snapped, every muscle bruised and every nerve convulsed and screamed.

It lasted less than a split second.

And it was terrifying.

He laid on the cold earth in the Valkyrie’s cave, shaking slightly at the memory. The intensity of that club crushing him flat waged war with his determination.

“A particularly nasty vanquishing, hero,” Hildr said, a sympathetic tone barely audible in her voice.

“Yea,” Arron coughed, forcing himself to sit up.

“Let me know if I can assist you on your quest.”

For a long moment Arron stared out of the cave, the Bifrost in the distance teasing him. How could he go back again, knowing the pain that could await him?

He had to turn his Pain Tolerance back up. He simply had to. Nobody could withstand that level of torture. He would go mad. Might already be going mad.

But if he died…

He needed to get to Bella.

Emotions roiled in his chest, every bit as fierce as his battles with the Einherjar.

In the distance, the clouds continued to churn, slowly spiraling over a point within Asgard. Those rolling clouds almost seemed to beckon to him.

Arron made his decision.

He stood and closed his eyes, allowing one last shiver from the memory. Forcing the feeling down, he blew out a long breath and started once again for the entrance to Asgard.

***

“Hello, Hero!” Heimdall said cheerfully. “Another bout with the Einherjar completed, eh?”

Arron tilted his head, searching for some sign of deception in the guardian’s tone. The large man just smiled expectantly.

Arron smiled wide. His plan really had worked. A slight weight lifted from his shoulders, at least this particular obstacle was still surmountable.

“Aye. Shall we try our dance again?” Arron shouted back in a friendly tone.

“If you continue to insist, hero,” Heimdall returned, chuckling under his breath.

***

Arron held his breath as he crept past Heimdall’s feet into Asgard once again. It took eight tries this time to get past the Einherjar to the rope. Seismic Slam was definitely effective, but the warriors knew to expect it, adjusting their tactics and holding back more until it was on cooldown.

He’d made it past them though. As soon as Arron crept into Asgard, he threw himself behind a rock. Shamelessly he hid, unmoving, scanning the village for the one-armed man of his nightmares.

It didn’t take long.

No more than ten seconds after he came through the gate, the impossibly tall, muscle-bound man leapt from behind a building, gaze sweeping left and right.

Inspection – Perfect Success!

– Tyr –

– God of War and Justice; Namesake of Tuesday; Son of Odin; Wielder of Tyrfing –

Deity – Level ??

A righteous and just deity, Tyr is tasked with presiding over matters of law and justice among the Aesir.

Traits

Health Pool: Vibrant

Damage: Insurmountable

Speed: Normal

Constitution: Indestructible

Specials: Judgement, Divine Voice, Sundering Blow, Immortal, Righteous Focus

Arron took in the sight of the imposing figure, the stump of his right arm ending in an ugly scar where the skin had been stitched roughly back together.

And he carried that club. Though perhaps cudgel is a better word for the tree trunk sized piece of wood, wrapped with bands of dark metal that glowed from runes engraved on their surface. If something were to happen to it, on his back was strapped a large sword that glowed with an inner orange light. The weapon seemed to give off its own pressure, holding his gaze like a vice.

Mule pulled at Arron, surprising him with its sudden emotions. Flooding him with a mixture of fear, reverence and a desire for battle. The impulse that washed over him was so strong, Arron didn’t notice the step he took toward the edge of his hiding place and barely caught himself before taking a second.

Inspection – Success!

– Tyrfing –

Legendary Divine Weapon

Forged by the dwarves of Svartalfheim.

Oh.

Mule’s awe at the legendary weapon seeped into Arron’s chest, causing his heart to pump faster and adrenaline to spike. The pull was so strong, it was a damn near physical reaction emanating from the hammer. One that both respected, and through its very nature, wanted to measure itself against the blade.

“NO!” Arron whispered. “We will not be picking a fight with a LITERAL GOD just because that sword is bigger and stronger than you are!”

The pressure from Mule increased for a split second, giving Arron a very specific impression of cursing, before it waned… somewhat.

Disappointment and yearning raged within his companion. The basic need at its core. But the all too fresh memory of being crushed under the cudgel helped Arron remain in place.

With a force of will, he tore his gaze from the sheathed weapon, focusing again on Tyr.

“I swore the little bell went off…” the giant man muttered, looking under a big rock nearby his feet.

Tyr casually tossed aside a boulder the size of a minivan in his search. Arron held his breath.

Eventually growing bored, the tall warrior huffed and wandered back inside a nearby building.

Unsure, Arron didn’t move. Seconds went by, his heartbeat in his ears. Arron was rewarded when the head of Tyr, God of War and Justice, popped out the door, looking down the street suspiciously. Tyr glared before retracting his head and slamming the door.

Arron let loose his breath, waited another moment or two to be sure, and when his confidence grew, moved down the street.

“Maybe practice your Stealth.”

“Shut up, Torbin,” Arron muttered under his breath, doing his best to move quietly. Of course he would find himself in yet another situation where he needed to be sneaky.

For once, luck seemed to be with him. Tyr did not return. He fought down his excitement as he turned the corner, stepping out of sight of Tyr’s guardhouse.

He was safe. The relief flooding him was intoxicating, he could almost—

Arron jerked to a stop, nearly tripping on himself.

The road wound up a steep hill to what appeared to be a flat expanse on top of the mountain. The peak, jutting in the center of the circling clouds, had two dark figures darting across the sky, flitting through the roiling storm.

However, that imposing sight wasn’t why he stopped.

No more than thirty feet in front of him was a huge campfire, twenty feet tall, with a woman larger than either Heimdall or Tyr sitting and warming her hands.

The woman wore brown robes, vines, leaves and tree branches woven in and out of the fabric, seeming to spring from the garment itself. Her long blonde hair was held close to her skull by a circlet of gold, decorated with gemstones the size of Arron’s fist. Strands of golden hair escaped the hood of her robe to flow over her clothing, mingling with the leaves and vines.

A bird landed on a nest built into the shoulder of the woman’s robe. The red breasted avian settled into its home without worry or care for the precarious proximity of the woman.

Her eyes were the brightest blue he could imagine; the color of the deepest ice. And they were staring right at him, unblinking.

“Clearly I see you, hero,” the goddess said, her voice flowing over the land like wind through trees in fall. “If I wish you harm, rest assured no readiness or preparation on your part will aid you. Come, sit for a moment and share my fire.”

Inspection – Meager Success!

– Jord –

– Goddess of Earth and Land –

Deity – Level ??

Arron cautiously approached. He had no doubts this goddess would end him before he could escape. Power flowed off of her, enough to make Heimdall and Tyr seem like children. He didn’t know her intentions though, and whether he had any hope fighting back or not, Arron was on guard.

He sat at the fire, uncomfortable under her piercing gaze.

The goddess smiled. “So, there is some wisdom in that mind. Good to see.” With a gesture, she indicated a massive hunk of roasting meat, slowly turning itself. “Please, accept the hospitality of my food.”

Arron looked at the largest boar he had ever seen roasting over the fire, and then back to Jord.

“By offering my food, I am offering you peace at my fire. Gods do not quickly break the rules of hospitality.” She smiled wider, showing her teeth. “Unless you would prefer I not consider you a guest?”

Arron’s eyes were locked on the goddess as he reached out and grabbed a handful of the meat. He put the meat in his mouth, nodding his thanks.

Jord sat back, relaxing. With a deep sigh, she once again appraised Arron.

“You have come at a dangerous time, hero. Asgard is in an uproar over the disappearance of my son. Suspicion abounds, each party looking to another, seeking who could overpower one so strong.”

“Your son?”

“Yes. My son. And his,” she said, tilting her head toward the mountain top and the grey clouds spinning there. “The All Father is distraught with worry. Nearly inconsolable. He sees shadows in every corner, traitors behind every greeting. For someone to have taken Thor, it makes it clear that whatever this threat is… even Odin is not safe from it. It is why Asgard is closed. He has no faith in humans at the best times, even less so now. Your path ahead is fraught with danger, hero. It places you on a collision course with the All Father himself. For only there, somewhere in his paranoia, is the peace he needs. The peace we all need.”

Quest Updated!

– Trouble in Asgard –

Odin One-Eye is distraught over his missing son, Thor. Help the Aesir calm their leader and bring peace back to Asgard.

When you are caught in the current, be careful how much you fight.

“I need to go to Odin?”

“You do.”

Arron nodded. He’d guessed something like this was the end of the quest line. Bringing peace to Asgard was a nice touch, but ultimately, this was going to end in battle.

Standing, he thanked Jord and moved to head up the path.

“Good luck, hero,” Jord whispered, her voice following him, the sound like dry leaves over a rocky ground. “I believe you will need it.”