Getting Started

I know one thing for sure, and it’s that death won’t stop my mother from nagging me. Us Barrows are hard to kill off, and if our corporal forms are destroyed, well then we’ll just come back as spirits. And annoy our descendants into an early grave.

Now that both my parents are dead, as the firstborn child it’s my job to take on the family business, as in to run the sprawling, probably sentient building that we simply call “the Inn”. The Inn is home to the ghosts of my dead relatives, various deities and more folklore figures than I can count. I’m pretty sure not every lodger is registered, some of them just slunk in before writing was invented and haven’t moved since. Aunt Jane, for one, was devoured by a monster from a time before time itself, which we had no idea was there. She’s very fond of reminding us of her misadventure.   

It’s my job not only to make sure everything runs smoothly, but also to keep adding to the family archives. You see, every Barrow who has had the honor to be the director of the Inn in their lifetimes has detailed their experience in whatever form they found most suitable. That’s why I’ve decided to start up this blog.

I’m off to a promising and exciting start, since there’s the Ragnarök situation to deal with. Granted, it’s only been a year since the last apocalypse, but I didn’t get to witness the round table for that one. Damn you, mom.

Yes, I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but it’s hard when they’re right next to me and keep peeking over my shoulder to see what I’m writing. Don’t lie, mom, I know what you’re doing. 

A high council of old gods has taken over my living room and is currently discussing how to deal with the Norse apocalypse and whether or not the Norse Parthenon has the right to destroy the planet. The general consensus is that they don’t, because it would extend beyond their sphere of influence.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s just delusions of grandeur, none of the old gods have had a sphere of influence worth of that name for centuries, all those who still have a decent number of worshippers have better things to do than sit around and fight with their colleagues about Ragnarök.

Even if they let it happen, the Norse apocalypse wouldn’t bring about more than a few out-of-season blizzards.

And of course, I would have one less pantheon to deal with. But that would be too good to be true, wouldn’t it?

Anyways, I don’t think the discussion will last long, I’m pretty sure Odin’s just being contrary to prove a point. I mean, he dies at the end of Ragnarök, I don’t see why he wouldn’t seize the occasion to get out of it. A couple of pints of mead paid by dear old Zeus (or Jupiter, I’m not sure which one of them is the head of the council this week) and he’ll be fine.

I can’t wait until they leave and take Loki with them. Guess who has been given the important task of babysitting the god of mischief? Yeah, that’s right: me. The council is scared he’ll take it upon himself to resolve the situation and go rally the frost giants.  

If you’re female, you may be wondering whether or not Loki is quite as dashing as Tom Hiddleston. I hate to disappoint you, but he’s… not. He just looks unsettling. And I really would prefer it if he stopped staring at me like that, I’m afraid he’ll try to murder me and make a run for it.

Not that he’d succeed, of course. all those centuries chained in a cave must have done terrible things for his muscle mass and I’ve gotten fight training by my great-grandmother Giorgiana, who used to be a mercenary when she was young. I know how to handle aggressive costumers, even godly ones. But my laptop would end up as a casualty of our sparring match, and I’ve had this one for just a month. I really wish one would last at least six months.

Stay tuned in for more tales from the Inn!

Love,