The soft whisper of falling dust, the gossamer drift of spider webs, the sullen grind of cobble stones whose cement has rotten beneath each paw fall. And there, hackles up in the darkness, in a place never touched by the sun, I count the coffins.
Time seems to stand still, the great sword agleam in my jaws. Yet the corpses in their legions stay still.
Are they afraid, or is it me? I know I'll never know.
My name is Sif, and I shall retreat to the place of his fall, defend it against one and all. The gods stole his life, yet I still have mine and so-
I'll kill you, little hero. I will you know.