Everyone's undead, and everyone's a writer. I understand that sitting in a tomb with nothing to do does that to an immortal. How am I to compete with this? But no worries, by turn 60, I'll have you all safely back in the grave!
--- Vanheim I ---
The big weenie in the sky is gone, good riddance! Not a moment too soon, either… A few more years of peace and tedium, and I would have probably slit my own veins. Or more likely, I would have rode up to His Supreem Dullness, and stuck a spear in his enormous gut… a much classier way to end it all. But enough about the past! There is a bright and bloody future ahead of me. The people of Vanheim may have forgotten me, but there is nothing like being trod on by an giant, eight-legged horse to stir one’s memory.
It’s true that they have grown a bit too soft for my liking, and what the hell is up with the hummies no longer enslaved and even allowed to lead troops? The only Vanir I could root out has barely heard about air magic, and would not know a sacrificial virgin if she bled all over him. I may be able to use him for shuffling troops around, but first I will stick his nose inside a grimoire for a month or two, while I figure out whether his brain was missing at birth, or whether it atrophied from disuse.
It may take some time to hammer these slackers into a weapon I can use. But I have waited centuries for a chance to start a good gory war, and I’m not going to show up on the battelfield with an escort of under-educated fools and peace-loving sissies. I could brush up on some spells myself, come to think about it… But first, I think I will go trample some infidels. I’m back, and everyone better believe it!