Dragon Raid The Ruin of Gnapinulva Images and story by Smilla 1/7/03

Gnapinulva was the name of a dragon, and her nemesis was hight Bcoasty. The dragon was proud and cruel, and possessed many magics and treasures dear to the folk of Midgard. Of the fall of Gnapinulva dealeth this tale. In Huginfel were messengers seen, and in Svasud Faste and Jordheim the city, and through all the land of Midgard. Jarls and Magi, Rogue and Priest, the folk of the land responded to the call. Troll the tall, Kobold the quick, Norse the noble and Valkyn the valorous, they flocked to Gna Faste, where the hunting-army gathered. Bcoasty was the general, in his name they gathered. Many for greed followed that road. Many also for honor, or for wonderment came. Through the wolves of Malmohus, mighty in their evil, plowed the iron-hearted horde. The Drakulv were cast aside, droplets of water touched by a longboat's prow. Smokeless was the lair of Gnapinulva. Fire was not the life of this dragon of the north, terrorizer, arrogant slayer. Tiny gems, ice from the air, frosted each shield and axe, vaporous and cold, breath of Gnapinulva.

Plans were laid and orders were given. A sacrifice of small souls, the young folk of Midgard, walked forth to tempt the dragon from her perch. Quickly they died, lambs to an ice-knife. Behind them was the hunting-army of Midgard. Short was the battle then, Gnapinulva triumphant. Badly was she wounded, but more grievous still was the death she inflicted. The stinking remains of a mighty army. Even so tempted, no crows dared enter the lair. Shamans and healers, loyal servants of Ymir and of Eir, surveyed the swelling scene. Set to work, without rest beyond their need for magical power, they prayed to the Aesir. Gnapinulva did sneer, and let out a blast of cold that slew many. Hard working, praiseworthy were they who undid this evil. The army was resurrected, grass in the spring.

Bcoasty gave new orders, and again the army attacked. The dragon, world-scorner, cared not. This time did all who fought keep close to her, and smote her scales with hammer, axe, spear and sword. The air smelled of the magics that tore at the dragon, and rang and echoed as a hundred blacksmiths hammered the anvil, Gnapinulva. Great wolves and wolf-men, servants of the wyrm, erupted from the body of Ymir as dragon-bellows turned desperate. Again were the servants of Eir the saviours of the army, freezing dragon-servants in their tracks. With flagging strength, the Dragon ripped at her tormenters, a dog at bay. Arnulf the Dragonborn, mighty in revenge, delivered the killing thrust. Crashing to the dust, Gnapinulva lay in ruins.

After the battle, dragon's treasure began its work. Evil is the lure of that upon which a dragon has lain long and long. Of the greed and the squabbling, this tale will not speak. Even the brightest sunlight casts shadows, and the proudest day ends in dusk.

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