Odin's Theater

The red sunrise sheds it’s crimson light upon the land. A haunting prelude to the scarlet tide that would soon paint the grass with a blanket of death.

Eyes open, muscles stretch, joints crack, and voices whisper across the silent valley, in prayer of Odin’s wisdom and the strength of Thor.

Food and drink circle about on both ends. Weak mead and ale down the anticipation in every warrior’s heart, and stale bread and meat fuel their blood with lust.

Steel and iron glint everywhere under the new sun’s fingers. Swords, spears, and axes keen for life, and the links of every brynie, newly polished, shine like silver.

Ranks begin to form like the marching of ants. Shields lock, spears extend, and bow strings tighten, ready to seek the blood of foes and snatch the life from their breath.

The lull before battle is like the calm before Thor’s rage splits the heavens. Men are silent, deep in contemplation, awaiting the glorious reward every warrior desires.

Without warning, the eastern sky darkens as an arrow storm pierces the calm and falls like deadly rain upon the western ranks. First blood sprays the ground in streams of steel and scarlet.

The western ranks respond in kind, loosing their steel-tipped hail toward the sun. Soon the whisper of death entices the crows, anticipating the feast that is sure to follow.

The rain of death ceases and the sky grows clear and empty. Then, like the fury of the sea battering the wooden hull of a longship, the warriors merge and reap a bloody harvest inside the chaos.

Like fire consuming a forest of oak, iron keens for space and life. Slash of sword, crush of axe, thrust of spear, and pierce of arrow ravage mail, flesh and bone alike.

The sun passes it’s midday course, and lust for blood only increases. Fathers lose sons, sons lose fathers, and Odin watches all from his eye of wisdom.

As the sun begins it’s descent beyond the sea, bodies of hundreds lay upon the ground. The rivers now run with crimson streaks, and the dying sun casts the same shade across the land.

Now, not one living soul marches upon the grass. Discarded weapons and scraps of clothing litter the field as schools of fish, immobile in the sea.

Yet, through the now ringing silence, a noise of a different sort is heard. The singing of a thousand maidens fills the air, and the sun’s last rays become as white as new snow upon the mountaintops.

Sent by Father Odin from the halls of Valhalla, the Valkyries descend upon the land. With hair and mail as gold as the sun, their swords and spears flash like lightning as their silver steeds land silently among the carnage.

Moving among the fallen, the maidens awaken the spirits of the worthy, saddle them astride their horses and ascend into the sky as the moon sheds the light of death upon the blood-leaden field.

Rainbow Bifrost quivers as the horse’s hooves streak across the bridge, through the great plains of Asgard, to the doors of Vahalla itself.

The doors fly open with a mighty crash, and a cheer of equal magnitude welcomes the warriors to join the revelry.

Tables by the thousands are laden with oaten loaves, roasted joints, and mead flowing endlessly from silver flagons.

When the feasting and music draws to a close, the warriors take to their beds, each warmed by maidens both beautiful and willing.

The battles for land, power, and honor have come to an end on Midgard, but the true battles, the battles purely for pleasure, have yet to begin.