The wizened gatekeeper shuffled along at a maddeningly slow
pace. With each churn of an arthritic hip. The keys jangled at his belt. They
were ancient keys—both utilitarian and fantastical designs—all on an enormous
ring. The cross-crossed paths on the university’s ground were coated in a light
frost, making his journey even more perilous.
“By Odin’s beard, this is the last thing I need,” he
muttered as he looked to the darkening storm clouds above.
When he reached the gate, he glowered at the ravens perched
on its spires. They squawked in unison. The cloaked figure on the other side of
the gate wore a broad hat and carried a well-worn staff.
The gatekeeper grunted as he fumbled with the keys. “Back
from Midgard already?”
The ravens squawked again. The gate rumbled, and the cloaked
man stepped through and onto the path that led to his home. “By my beard, eh?
I’ll thank you to be quicker next time, else I feed your heart to the wolves.”
His hard, one-eyed glared still unnerved the gatekeeper,
whose lips pressed shut and he placed the keys back on his hip again.
