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"Where are the gods?"
the Frost thurses ask;
evil wights have now noticed
that the guard has been let down.
The Sun has tired
as wolf continues its chase;
the warmth has left the land.
From Niflheim advances the embodiment of icy death;
the many evil thurses seize control.
Chaos monsters wielding weapons of cold and ice
roam the countryside,
killing living beings with shafts of ice.
"Where are the gods?",
the people of Midgard cry out.
Asleep in Aegir's hall;
great were the feasts of fall
too much ale had been drunk.
From the din of fear from the folk below,
the Holy Ones begin to rise.
The Bane of Thurses picks up his hammer;
Mjollnir's Wielder goes forth to battle.
Lightning struck and the thunder god roared.
Many were the frost giants slain;
many more were those who fled back to their icy homes.
For soon the Sun rises high;
the warmth returns to the land,
the bounty of Sif will soon be laid.
Published in: "Drunk on the Mead
of Inspiration", March 1997.
Author of "Basic
Port", © John
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