Let us tell you a tale.
≈ VII ≈
iv. The Saga of Frostwood
In such an idyllic setting, all young boys’ minds turn to mischief and exploring the boundaries of their world. Each day of play took him a little further from his home, always carrying his father’s lucky stone with him when he set out to play. Couldn’t hurt, his father said.
One day it took him all the way to the foothills that separated Muspelheim, the land of fire, from the gentle lands of Midgard. The air past the ridge of the foothills glowed red and blasted heat like an open stove. And although he could not move closer to the inferno, Mithrilon’s eyes followed a dancing bit of flame that moved separately from the rest.
It flickered and danced, and Mithrilon began to move along with it. The flame paused. So did he. And then he pulled his lucky stone from his pocket, flipping it in the air and catching it again. A small and fiery form popped its head above the ridge and blinked at Mithrilon. And then something flipped into the air, sparking fire like a ruby cracked by the sun itself.
Mithrilon flipped his lucky stone again. So did his new friend, who appeared to be a young fire elemental. But this time, the fiery stone did not come down straight, and instead took a wayward bounce off a lava rock and came tumbling down the hill. The elemental started as if to chase after the stone, but pulled back at the cooler air before it and fled back over the ridge.
The ruby stone landed with a soft thud at young Mithrilon’s feet. He picked it up, and when he dusted it off, a small inferno exploded directly in his face.
When he arrived back at the homestead, well-singed, but otherwise unhurt, he did not tell his father of his adventures that day, and tucked the brilliant ruby stone inside a slipper under his bed.