Across the frozen wastes, an ice wind is blowing.
The craggy gorges swell over the Baltic ocean, slate grey in the stark light of day. Clouds harry in from the north, boiling the sky into a heaving frenzy. A lone seal slips into the water without a trace, sensing the change in the air. For one whole second, the landscape holds its breath, even the howling wind ceasing for a fraction of a moment. Then, the axe descends, the calm shattering like a mirror.
A scream ripples through the air, sending sheets of icicles plummeting down, frosted glass with needle points and the mighty bulk of Jörmungandr writhes up from the ocean, sloughing water like snakeskin. Waves crash down, sending plumes of freezing spray and shards of ice flying through the air, hitting the snow with a roar.
The sky itself seems to rip apart as the head of the serpent lifts, the enormous tail clenched between rows and rows of teeth. Then, Jörmungandr sinks, the water closing over his head. Black ice floes smash together, the last of the violence sinking beneath the ocean. A tern gives a terrible cry, loss and hope foretelling the oncoming silence. Then there is nothing.
Nothing but the ice wind.
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