The Magic Community

Just After The Duel...

Siegfried stormed away from the freshly flash-frozen raceway, seething with impotent rage, his eyes burning with moisture. He was dimly aware that someone was shouting behind him, but did not turn. It wasn’t the voice he wanted to hear, so he focused on the odd tingling in his hair and the extra effort it seemed to take just to walk in his now apparently mortal body. It wasn’t until the voice was suddenly right next to him that he gave a sidelong glance to his left and saw Murdock standing beside him.

“Hey, Siegfried,” the park ranger shouted, apparently a little agitated at being ignored, “You forgot this.” In Murdock’s hands was the oppressively large and morbid Jotunsen heirloom sword, Vhitingr. Siegfried took the offered blade by the hilt and looked at Murdock with an incredulous, evaluating stare. Ever stoic, the werealligator didn’t seem too broken up about Harper’s death at first glance, but the trembling of Murdock’s chin and the tension in his jaw became noticeable under extended scrutiny.

“Uh, thanks,” was all Siegfried could think to say. He then thought of more, but was promptly distracted by the feeling of a thousand daggers piercing his hands and wrists, with thousands more starting to carve their way up his forearms. The savage cold washed over him like a tide, and he limply dropped the sword to the ground, giving a choked cry of pain. The icy burn immediately began to subside, then, as he rubbed his hands and stared at the weapon in utter confusion.

“Dude, what’s wrong,” Murdock asked, looking equally dumbfounded by the event.

“Just keep that thing the hell away from me,” Siegfried growled, and then stubbornly returned to walking off to Odin-knows-where.

“Jesus. What the fuck ever, Zig,” cursed Murdock in sheer exasperation. Friendship and understanding only went so far after the strain of the day’s disastrous events, and Siegfried’s fit was not helping Murdock’s mood. Quite the opposite. The weregator grabbed the sword and held it up, making a nasty face at the mercenary’s retreating back. Murdock felt nothing from the sword that would cause him to drop it. Quite the opposite. It thrummed with potential that urged him to keep it. To wield it.



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