Against the stone wall of the cave, a scraping talon sounds, and Haggrmyr freezes, his blood turning to ice in his veins. The sound echoes around the stone walls, magnifying the shriek of keratin against rock, and making it difficult for Haggrmyr to pinpoint its origin. He curses Loki and Thor and the priestess of his home village for measure, and finally curses himself. His hair stands on end as he realizes there is a low bass hum in the air. His heart sinks with the realization that it is the warning growl of a creature at least as large as a man, and likely heavier.

He had just wanted to see his son again. A fools errand to be sure, but Haggrmyr had been desperate. His son, Brook had been taken in the night while he himself had slept. He knew not the nature of his demise, but he knew that the boy was dead. He had to be. After eight weeks of searching the woods, not even the sign of Brook’s passage could be seen in the brush or along the paths.

He had turned to drink then, and the days had blurred into nights, and back into days. The rest of the village either pitied him in his grief, or hated him for his nuisance and he could not be sure which was worse. So he kept right on drinking and forgetting and remembering and drinking again. That was when Freymaer the priestess had approached him, swearing by all the gods and their genitals that though his son might be dead, there was a way to see him again, and perhaps put him to rest. That this offer seemed too good to be true was lost on Haggrmyr, his stupor doing nothing to aid his mental acuity.

“What must I do!?” He had grabbed her then, shaking her and tearing her clothes. She had hissed at him and slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to draw blood with nails as large as these talons sounded. He had stopped drinking that night, and that was when the shaking started. It was small but noticeable and it made his shield arm ache any time he carried significant weight.

She told him that his son could be met at the gates of Hel if he was brave enough to make the journey. She had warned him of what lurked here, but he had scoffed. The gods were useful fictions, but Haggrmyr was a pragmatist and even if the gods were real then they didn’t give two shits for him or his son and he was fine to ignore them too.

Now he wishes he had listened more to the legends and stories. The ones that told of such fearsome monsters as what stalked him now. He knows of the great wolf Fenrir and of Jormungandr and a handful of other legends, but this one escapes him and he can’t help but feel that it was important. He slides his shield off his back and onto his left arm, flexing in the straps and feeling a telltale tremor. “Hold, damn it” he whispers to his arm. In his right hand he grips a short sword - barely longer than a dagger, but preferable in the cramped tunnels he now treads.

“Many have tried to enter my master’s home” the growl subtly changing into a gravelly approximation of comprehensible speech. “All have tasted defeat.” A pause. “and I have tasted them.” The voice that is a growl becomes a rhythmic huff and Haggrmyr grasps that the thing has begun laughing at him.

“What brings you to my domain? What brings you to the Gates of Hel?” The creature snarls.

“I am here to speak with my son. Will you grant me safe passage, or shall I claim it for myself?” Haggrmyr speaks loudly and clearly despite the pounding of his heart in his chest.

“Brave words, and a strong voice even though he stinks of fear” the voice muses to itself. “Can it live up to its words I wonder?”

Claws again scrape agonizingly over stone, and a large beast steps into Haggrmyr’s line of sight. Its fur is a stark white, except for its muzzle and its chest which are stained a variety of raw bloody reds and dried crusty browns. The resemblance to a dog or wolf is outweighed by the sheer size of the thing. Even through the dense fur, outlines of thick muscle were visible. The image sparks a memory in Haggrmyr’s mind.

“Garmr.” He whispers to himself, his mouth running dry. The Guardian of the Gates of Hel. A story. A myth. A bloody reality. Haggrmyr has a moment of true, unadulterated, raw fear. It threatened to turn his muscles to water and freeze him to the stone. It threatened to take over his mind and body and send him running from the cave screaming into the night.

Then the image of his son stands before his mind’s eye, and he finds new resolve. His grip tightens on his sword and his shield arm steadies slightly. A warmth spreads in his chest and it seems like the cave is brighter.

No, it is brighter. He dares not take his eyes off of Garmr, but he tries to look toward the source of the light. A necklace given to him by the priestess before he began this quest. It was a Rune. Like the top half of an arrow, or like a T shape with the arms of the cross bent down. It was glowing a bright, piercing white.

Garmr snarls as the light hits his bloody maw, every muscle tensing, making them even more noticeable. Haggrmyr has mere moments to ready himself, shield and sword barely rising to position when the Guardian leaps toward him, jaws open, and claws as long as his hand extended toward him.

Haggrmyr cries out equal parts terror and bloodlust and leans into his shield, prepared to die to see his son again.