The plagues. The dream visitor. The floating island. The disapearances. The trickery. The games the gods played only seemed to enrage Ezra further. Hell, everything seemed to enrage Ezra further.

His life here had only seemed to become one fucking shit show after another. Hardening him, fueling him, perhaps for a battle to end all battles - for Ragnorok.

He had very quickly come to a place in his life where he simply waited to die. But he could not kill himself. He could not relent and allow his opponent to best him. It must be a mighty battle if he were to join his brethern in Valhalla.

The heat was nothing like he had ever felt in his entire life. Even in those early times when his mother had led her pups through lands set on fire in the not so far distance. It was suffocating, weighing him down. The norseman could not bare it.

And there, in the distance, clouds stretched out to the scorching sands and within them formed figures. Dark like ocean waters of the north. Wolves large like bears, with faces turned demonic. Was this Ragnorok? Had the battle begun? Ragnar and Elli had both battled with bears, came a thought. One which had Ezra charging forward for a fight without an ounce of further thought thereafter.