The wind was blowing so hard the trees have quit resisting the gale and are bent over like fetal babes silently crying their helplessness to the forces of nature.  There is no snapping back of these poor things, as they strain simply to remain rooted in the ground.  The snow coming down, hit and stuck to my body, slowly melting, rusting my mail and weapons faster than I could clean them, as I trudged along the path here in Uppland. 

I had left the towering gates of Svaude Fauste leagues behind, knowing that was the last bastion of protection except for the few keeps that rise up out of this nether region to claim a small circle of protection for those fortunate to gain admittance by their gatekeepers.  The Jarls of the keeps have a standing offer of protection to wayward travelers, although with the tenuous hold of the men-at-arms that guard these keeps, you are often asked to help defend the very place of safety you have entered for respite.

The day had dawned bright but slowly the weather had deteriorated to the current near-blizzard freezing snow and ice storm I avoid whenever possible.  My companions and I are on our journey to Odin's Gate, to hunt the giants there.  It slowly dawned on me that I had not seen any of the mephits that are almost always scampering back and forth across the frozen trail, nor had I seen any of the frosty scuttlebugs that thrive in this snow-blasted landscape.  Only the howl of the frost wolves echoing across the mountain tops caused me to recognize anything existing in this frozen piece of frontier land.

Then it assailed my nostrils, the acrid stench from something not of this realm.  Calling on Thor to strengthen my arm, I draw my giant two-handed hammer; forged in the pits of muspelhiem and quenched in the blood of Olash the fire-spirit, and I ask for Thor to bless my weapon, and it glows a soft pearlescient blue.  Then they enter my sight, and my blood begins to burn, as I cry out for my fellow guild knights to join me and repel these invaders to Midgard.  Bow strings twanged from both forces and arrows ripped the very fabric of the air until striking something solid with a suddenness than stuns the ears, and one blocked by my shield nearly rips my arm off.  I scream Thor's challenge to these fell creatures of another realm and lightning bolts crash down among my enemies, my gift to them granted by the war god.  The battle is fierce, the sounds of war are disconcertingly loud, screams of pain and triumph co-mingle in the frosty air while the ground beneath us is churned to a reddish-brown paste that cakes our boots and sucks at our feet trying to keep us glued in place.  Finally with a sickening crunch the last mortal enemy is flung to the ground at the end of my hammer, my eyes still search for anything else that may threaten me or my company.  I think to myself, this is just another day in the life of a troll from the KGB.