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An Asgaard Announcement


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Time rolls on, another winter gone, and more to come before we sing our song. Another year has passed, another notch cut, and more memories made. The Sky Citadel still stands, our hearts strong, our blades sharp, our mead sweet. Some who once were are no more but their passing has done naught but strengthen what remains, the earth is shoveled away leaving stone in its place.

To distant lands our ships bore and bear us still and in our sometimes grim and sometimes merry wanderings new friends we have made who have strengthened our might and resolve. To the vast and blade bearing realms of Nordreich we came and through much mead and some blood a new pact was made between the two and the shield-walls were strengthened, and in good time since a meeting of the blades was had with Jotuns before even a day had passed, but that is another tale for another time. To a massive ice-berg we sailed once and found a small yet brave group named the Rebels of the North doing battle with the Midgaard Serpent of all things. After a long and glorious battle which is also another story it was decided that such hearty folk should dwell alongside Asgaard until they grew strong and skilled enough to sail amongst the bloody seas on their own winds. Another tale is how one our ships was sucked down into a whirlpool and somehow managed to meet up with a varied assortment of sentient rats and insane shivering folk who dubbed themselves CRAP. Many unsung tales of which there is no time to recount were had, and eventually our two folk united, and halls installed with pipes after much banging and clanging. The most recent of our bonds was that of the forging of Mjolnir, but that tale has been told already so this will have to suffice. "Born in the Earth alone, melded in the flames with many, made strong by the cold as one. We are Mjolnir, born of the forge, bane of giants, protector of the tree-born, and hammer of the North."

Through many a harrowing night, Commander Thrawn stood with the Asgaard, and after more travels to far off realms on its behalf then any pair of feet should have to make, his loyal service was rewarded and punished with ascension. Lord Heimdallr of the Aesir now watches over and guides Asgaard amongst the other high ones. Though joyous this was, it left a hole and the Vanir were left without their proper numbers, so a search was made throughout the folk of Asgaard, a long and treacherous tale of danger and excitement this was, but alas there is no time for that. After many days of adventuring the Aesir decided to appoint the first creature with at least the appearance of life to the job, lo and behold as they sat around their table in the great mead-hall a cat jumped down onto Heimdallr's shoulder. "You!" they shouted, and with that a cat was appointed to be a noble Vanir. How did the cat feel about this? When asked all it did was grin and nod.

Time keeps on but Asgaard still remains, waiting and watching, ravens eyes how they glimmer so bright I wonder if you could see them in the night. Heh, heh, heh.


tl:dr We have hit the terrible twos, and CheshireCat, who wrote this narrative, has been promoted to Vanir.

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