All of the signs were showing.
With the sons of the king and the queen dead, a long winter had risen from the depths from the realm of ice and cold. For three years an endless angry winter named "Fimbulwinter" raged on and on. Driven mad by the cold, brother slayed brother, sister turned against sister, and families waged war upon the lands that were once made of pease. There was no sun in those dark times, nor would there ever be a sun again.
It was beginning.
Broken, the rune of Thurisaz could not contain him any longer. Thus, the bonds which held the great serpent of earth prisoner were wretched free from their roots. He gave a mighty roar as he ripped free from the turbulent seas which held him captive. His tail smashed and splashed the rocky waves, spraying poisonous water which crashed towards the land.
It was beginning.
A father to all wolves shattered the unbreakable bonds forged to keep him contained. He snarls, his maw dripping with the want for bloody revenge. His urge to reap death and destruction against those who contained and suppressed him was strong. Howling, he gave the command to his sons, Sköll and Hati to devour the moon and the sun.
Not even the great tree could help the world's twisted within its once safe branches now. It shook, creaked and moaned: leaves dropping, branches snapping, roots cracking.
It was beginning.
Knower of all, Fjalar, the beautiful red rooster, warned the giants of the great purge. Giants of fire and ice readied their swords of lava, ice, earth and rock. Their weapons strong enough to deface mountains in a single blow.
It was time.
In the same second, an unnamed rooster warned the dead. They turned, uneasy in their sleep. The queen of the underworld rose from her throne of stone. Her eyes gleamed and flashed as she called to the spirits of the undead without speaking a word. She raised her hands; one hand of pale flesh, the other of rotting blue decay. The dead responded, readying themselves from their restless slumber.
It was time.
From the land of gold, a third red rooster named Gullinkambi warned those who thought themselves as indestructible immortals. Many were grim, knowing the fate that was to come. Blacksmiths forged axes of godly metal, mages cast spells of protective enchantment, and others prayed against the evil that was destined to burn the lands.
It was time.
A booming sound from Gjallarhorn, the gatekeepers war horn, reverberated throughout the lands, reaching the heavens. The fallen warriors of brave stood from their afterlife of merriment to face a war to end all wars.
This would be the battle to end all battles. This day would be the day that all of those who lived and died honourable in battle would unite with their swords and armour once more, to fight side by side with those from the land of gold against the monstrous giants.
Revived, the princes would breathe their first breath of air since death touched them. They journeyed their way back to the king and queen of the eternal land to fight on the sides of their brothers and sisters for one last time.
The plain of Vigrid waits; it's a blue sky turning black with storms of raging thunder, it's green grass will soon reap seeds of destruction, blood and war
A horse of eight legs will gallop these lands, a king seated upon him, an army from the land of gold following his lead.
A ship named Naglfar, made from the fingernails of the dishonourable dead, will sail to meet this army on the opposite side. At the front of its bow, the goddess of the underworld with her army of undead stands, silent. Naglfar's other occupants, the giants, thump their swords against their shields in an intimidating clash, their eagerness to start the war spilling over.
Nidhug, the great ferocious dragon, flies over the battlefield, cutting the light from the sky. He flies. Waiting. Watching. His never ending hunger fuels his desire for the death of those beneath him; his claws twitching for the soon to be corpses on the battlefield. His mouth drools with foul scented slobber. He is hungry for his feast to be served upon his plate: the battlefield.
It was beginning.
A mischievous creature of wildfire and lies waits. He has been mistreated on the land of gold. His soul yearns for its revenge upon the people he once called his family. He casts his gaze upon the future battlefield, meeting the his blood brother's eye from the opposite side. The king looks at back him. His gaze weary and full of forlorn hope, imploring the man he betrayed will call off the war that would end all life. But the child of mischief had come this far. He would not turn back.
It was time.
Drums beat through the lands. It was like a countdown. One. The sound echoed. Two. It vibrated through the warriors bodies. Three. The sound of utter deafening silence was to be heard. Then, the screams of warriors as they ran towards each other across the plains of Vigrid were the only sound to be heard.
Ragnarök; the end of all worlds. It had begun.
