A dream: you sit around a campfire circled by men and women in chainmail armor with heavy cloaks and furs wrapped around them. Each with a plain crown of simple metal. The men with silver beards and hair matching, the women wearing long braids of silver hair. The one with the long scar across his face stands, turns from the group and opens the flap to a tent, a old woman steps out of the tent leaning heavy on a wooden stick. She walks mostly bent over. Deep features set in deeper wrinkles. She makes her way to the gathering and sits down, all turn to face her.

“Ask” she prompts them.

“We come,” the one with the scar starts off.

“We come,” another man finishes the thought “to hear the story of the Jormungandr. To seek your wisdom of the ages now past”

“What is it you wish to know?” She answers back quickly, knowing already why they were here.

“We want to know what we must do to keep them from returning”

“You cannot stop them from returning.” She snapped back. “They always come, they always come and they always have and they always will. If not in your time, in the time of your children or your children’s children.”

“If we could find the nests maybe?” A woman spoke up, “kill the young ones before they can come hunting for mine.”

“Ha ha ha.” The old woman laughed. “You think no one has ever had that thought before? Many have tried, Thanes have led armies across this land in search of them and have returned with nothing but disappointment or not returned at all.”

She stretched out a hand to the fire and the yellow flame flickered and changed to green, blue, black, white and red and a whole flurry of color. Her eyes fixed on the fire unblinking unwavering from its light she seems frozen a moment then answers.

“They come as the lines of color in the sky when raindrops fall, so the Jormungandr come with as many colors when men fall likewise.” She withdrew her hand and the flame returned to yellow, she bundled the furs about herself and with assistance stood and returned to the tent.

You wake