Prologue

Have you ever been to the Globe Theater in London? Right, Shakespeare’s old rebuilt theater. I live there. Practically. It’s a great place to see a play, and just as good a space to work in as long as it’s not raining. The audience would be fine, usually, but the actors and stagehands get completely soaked.

Me? I’m a techie at the Globe, and on this particular night, it was raining cats and dogs.

Ah, right, haven’t introduced myself. I’m Jerrik, by the way. Jerrik Handel, but everyone just calls me Jack for two reasons: One, I don’t like being called Jerry. I don’t want to be associated with a cartoon cat who constantly gets his ass handed to him by a mouse. Two, British people can’t pronounce ‘R’s’ and I can’t stand it when the especially thick accents say my name as ‘Jedak’ all day.

Anyway, with the exposition out of the way, perhaps you can understand my state of mind as I walked to my flat at one in the morning under pouring rain after a particularly bad performance got out of hand, when I heard someone shout:

“Ah, Jedak Handle! Just the man I was looking for!”

I froze, took a deep breath, put a hand to my chest, and exhaled as I pushed my fist out in front of me. The Smile Song, which had been playing through my mind at the time, abruptly morphed into the fan remix, Smile HD.

If you haven’t guessed yet, yes I am a brony, though a less fanatic one than most, and a closet brony at that. No need to go waving my taste in cartoons around like a religion. I’m mostly in it for the music, anyway.

Back to the story, I turned around to find myself face to face with a pale, spindly man with an angular face and a small, black goatee. He was dressed in a slick suit with mask-shaped pins on both lapels. Something about him niggled the caution centers in my mind, putting me at unease.

“Yes indeed, sir. I have a deal for you, and you alone! A fabulous vacation away from all the rain and work, where you can make friends and relax in the countryside filled with the sound of music!”

I looked the man with the upper class British accent up and down as he offered me his hand. “No thanks. I’ve got bills to pay.”

“I told you he wouldn’t go for it,” A gravelly voice grumbled from behind me.

I whipped around to see a grizzled old man dressed in leather and furs, toting an umbrella in the shape of a trinity knot. He had a salt-and-pepper beard all the way down to his chest, and long hair in a plait down his back to his waist. Around his neck hung a golden harp on a chain. Even with his one sentence, I could hear his Scottish brogue coming from a mile away.

The man in the suit behind me huffed. “Of course he didn’t. He didn’t even let me tell him where he was going and why. Rude.”

“Oh, shut your lie-hole, Laufeyson. Let the patron talk.”

“Bah, boring old geezer. Go pluck a harpstring.”

“Later. Now, Jerrik-”

“Hold it.” I interrupted the man in furs. “I think I know what’s going on here.” I pointed at the old man, “Bragi,” and stepped back so I could see both at once while gesturing at the suited man, who had a shit-eating grin on his face, “And Loki, right? Let me guess, someone stole a sweetroll from Asgard, and you want me to go on an epic quest to get it back.”

The two looked at each other before bursting out into raucous laughter.

“Two hints! That’s all it took!” The man I’d identified as Loki guffawed.

“Sharper than the last one, that’s for sure.” Bragi chuckled.

I crossed my arms, letting the two gods get the laughs out of their systems before cutting in.

“Well?”

“Aye, aye. One question first.” Bragi wheezed, transitioning from his Scottish accent to a Norwegian one. “How did you see through us that quickly? Loki’s supposed to be good at this, maybe he’s gotten old and rusty?”

I rolled my eyes as Loki put a hand to his chest, offended. “I’ve read the sagas and heard the lays. I know how you Æsir operate. My question isn’t who, at this point, but what. And further, why?”

Loki pouted. “Ugh, you picked a logical one. Huginn and Muninn would like this one, maybe even Hel, he’s so expressionless. But not Bragi, lord of skalds and poetry.”

Bragi sighed as I began tapping my foot. “Aye, but I have little enough choice. We have few enough worshippers, and only a fraction of them pay homage to me specifically. Of those, this one’s the only one that I can trust to get the job done.”

“I’m right here, you know?”

Loki shifted, looking agitated. “But this one is practically dead on the inside! And besides, he’s only a techie.” My eye twitched at that. “You need an actor to utilize your gifts.”

“Oy.” I cut Bragi’s answer off before turning to the god of poetry in question. “Loathe as I am to admit it, Loki makes some good points. Just tell me what this quest is, and I’ll be on my way.”

Bragi sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot. “Alright, lad. And you’re wrong on one point, Loki. He is an actor, he has the training.”

“I was failing high school and needed the credits.” Though, admittedly, that was what introduced me into technical theatre.

“It counts. But this quest, you see, is more of a… well a game of chess isn’t quite accurate…”

“It’s more like checkers, actually,” Loki chimed in. “And every piece is a different colour and controlled by a different deity, each looking to win for themselves.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Am I to assume Jim Butcher rules for religion then?”

“We all exist!” Loki crowed, nodding. “Some of us just have more believers, and thus, more power.”

“So let me get this straight. You,” I pointed at Bragi. “Want me to fight for you with nothing but my wits and whatever boon you may give me?” Bragi nodded. “Alright. Where am I going, and what am I doing? Also, what should I tell Steven? You know, my Production Manager? At the job I would like to keep?”

Loki chuckled nervously. “I, ah, already tendered your resignation for you right after you’d left the theater.”

I closed my eyes.

I counted to ten.

“Fine. At least now I know why you’re here.”

Bragi scowled at Loki. “Actually, I never told him to do that.”

Loki scoffed. “So I took the initiative, is that so bad?”

I shrugged. “I suppose not, since it’s worked out this time. But if that wasn’t his job, then why is he here?”

“Well…” Bragi scratched the back of his head. “As I said, we Æsir have few enough worshippers. I don’t have enough power on my own to send you where you need to go.”

“So Loki’s here to help send me to… wherever it is I’m going?”

“I’m your tornado, Dorothy.” Loki grinned, putting a finger on my forehead as Bragi grabbed one of my shoulders. “Except you’re not going to Oz, this time. I hope you’re not too fond of Kansas, because this here’s a one way ride!”

The next things I felt were trees. Not a single tree, no, but multiple trees. Tree branches that I was falling through, to be exact. Followed closely by the ground.

“Fordømte kråke brett!” I shrieked. “Mødrene var hamstere og dine fedre smelte av hyllebær!”

I flailed about, insulting my gods all the while. To any other person, this would seem like random convulsions, but I assure you that every thrash had a purpose. I’d recognized immediately that I’d been transformed into something. I was testing my muscles to see what twitched at what command.

Okay, maybe I was also panicking a little. Can you blame me? I’d just been morphed into what felt like some kind of bird and thrown from the sky into an unknown forest.

After I had figured out how to move with some semblance of skill, I stood and surveyed myself. My first clue to my raptor-like nature was the wickedly curved beak where my face used to be. Next were the dark brown feathers on my back, as I craned my neck to look.

As I turned my overly long neck, I caught a glimpse of orange on my breast. Down at the other end of me, two bright orange, ruffle-y feathers framed a set of more utilitarian tail feathers. I recognized the long orange dangle-y feathers from a report I had done on Lyrebirds for a Biology class, but I was sure that Lyrebirds didn’t have eagle-like wings, tail feathers and beaks. They also probably weren’t as beefy as I seemed to be.

Speaking of my wings, the outermost feather was pitch black, and the tips of my feathers, as well as a stripe about three quarters of the way up their length were black, but light brown everywhere else. Curious, I chicken-strutted around in the hopes of finding a pond nearby. I was in luck, as it seemed to have rained recently, and there was a nice, reflective pool of water not far from where I’d landed.

My beak was a bright yellow, save for a wedge of black along its curve. The dark brown of my feathers were also on my head, save for a streak of black feathers surrounding my green eyes and trailing down a bit of my neck. On my neck was a splotch of orange just above my beast, and my undercarriage seemed to be a rich, creamy grey. My legs, I noticed, were scaled and the colour of slate with vicious black talons at the end of the toes. Clearly I was made for lifting and slashing prey.

Compared to some of the surrounding bushes and trees, I estimated myself to be about the size of a large dog. My large size, as well as my predatory features led me to believe that I was, in fact, not a Lyrebird.

As I came to this conclusion, I saw a glint from the corner of my eye. I followed the glint to find the sun reflecting off of a small golden harp, carved delicately with celtic knots, hanging off of a peg that was holding up a piece of paper. I couldn’t exactly grasp the paper with anything, so I resigned myself to reading it from the tree.

Dear ~~Utfor~~ Jerrik,

It read in a messy, scrawling script.

I hope that his letter finds you well. Attached is my gift to you, a harp made from my distilled powers over music and given the blessings of Huginn, Muninn, Thor, and Odin. It will allow you to cast spells my merely singing songs, though it will be up to you to learn which songs elicit which spells. Unfortunately, you already have a task before you. Someone is attempting to neutralize you early, and has somehow learned where you would land. There is an object near you called a Silencing Stone. Destroy it so that you may learn your spells as soon as possible.
Have fun,
Bragi Runetongue

At the bottom, in a neat cursive, another note was written.

P.S. String-plucker wanted me to turn you into a Lyrebird, but that would have been too boring. So I tossed some Roc into the mix. I call it the Lyroc.
Have fun with that!
Loki Laufeyson

My reflex to pinch the bridge of my nose translated in this new body, which Loki had been kind enough to wire with some basic instincts, to ruffling my feathers. I carefully eased the harp amulet onto my neck and let it fall onto my breast. I noticed, however, that the harp had been covering another note.

P.P.S. Ignore the ‘Property of Utfor’ inscription on the harp. Lazy McSingerman used the same boon as he did last time this happened, for a guy named Utfor. Personally, I wouldn’t care, but questions on ownership might be raised if you still call yourself Jedak.
Regards,
Loki Helsfather

“Huh.” I grunted. “Goodby Jerrik, then. I always hated that name, anyway.”

I registered after a moment that when I’d spoken, I’d felt the vibrations speech would entail in my chest, but I hadn’t actually heard anything. I guessed that the so-called Silencing Stone would be to blame.

I searched the area until I found an unhewn chunk of some marble-looking stone covered in slowly shifting Fuþorc runes. On top of what I assumed to be the Silencing Stone was an elegant, bright orange hawk that seemed to be randomly pecking at the runes and silently squawking.

Consumed as it was with the stone, the hawk didn’t notice me as I goose-stepped up to observe the swirling words. After some examination, I scoffed. Whatever amateur had inscribed the stone had used English words with Fuþorc runes.

I swiftly found the ᛋᛁᛚᛖᚾᚳᛖ word and gouged it out with one of my wickedly sharp talons. The word halted its movement, causing the other runes to flow around it, and some sound returned, though it was quiet and muffled. I realized that I’d have to go through and scratch out every ᛋᛁᛚᛖᚾᚳᛖ on the block.

I heard a screech above me, and I looked up to see the amber coloured hawk glaring down at me. I waved a wing at it and pointed to the neutralized word. My partner in sound fluttered to the ground next to me and cocked its head to look at the halted word, then looked back at me with a tilted head. I pecked at the word, and scratched another line through it. The other bird trilled softly before tearing at the word for itself, and looked back at me once more.

When I nodded, the hawk chirped happily and headbutted me before hopping back up onto the Silencing Stone. I sat down for a moment, shaking my head to clear the headache. After a moment, a victorious screech sounded out above me, and more sound returned to my ears.

After I joined in the hunt, we found four more ᛋᛁᛚᛖᚾᚳᛖs before the Silencing Stone abruptly dissolved. My companion fell to the ground with a surprised cry and was subjected to spontaneous combustion. I rushed over, hoping to help my new friend, and began flapping my wings at the flames and throwing clods of dirt with my feet as my compatriot thrashed about in panic.

Eventually, the fire went out. I approached the smoking mound of earth that was surrounded by a shallow trench that covered my avian acquaintance. Suddenly its head burst forth from the dirt to glare at me with fire in its eyes.

Literal fire, by the way. That’s where it clicked for me.

“Phoenix?” I asked, sheepishly ducking my head.

It simply nodded its head, shook of the dirt, and burst into flames briefly to clear off the rest of the dust.

What happened next cracked my mind somewhat. The phoenix strutted a bit, stuck its wings behind its head in a fan, and made the ‘waa waa’ sound from Pegasus’s introduction from Disney’s Hercules.

It took a moment to click.

“...Peewee?”

The phoenix looked delighted that I’d learned his name and swept me up in a hug with its wings and began to run its beak on my neck. I let it happen for a few moments, noting that Peewee seemed to be about half my size, before gently pushing him off. Since he seemed to be at least partially grown, I could assume that it had been some years since that episode in the sho-

The crack in my mind shattered.

-Years since that episode in the show.

In the show.

I was in Equestria.

My eye started twitching as Peewee waved a wing in front of my face.

“Du må være en spøk meg!” I burst out, startling Peewee. “Forbannet gudene, hva slags slagmarken er dette?”

I was incensed with the gods. Not just my patron, nor only the Æsir, but with all of the gods participating in this massive game of checkers. I was no fool, believing Equestria to be a peaceful land of sunshine and rainbows. It had its fair share of dangers, but I felt that it was still too innocent to be prepared for an influx of humans, transformed or not.

The thought of what type of person a god of war or death would choose made me shiver.

That thought was put on hold as I heard something nearby. Someone was laughing, but not in any good way. They were pulling off a high-pitched evil pixie cackle.

I immediately shook Peewee off, much to his indignation, and began stilt running towards the cackling. Bragi sent me here to fight, and he was a fairly good god, so I assumed he’d want me to help the ponies as well, so I figured I might as well see what could cause cackling like that.

I burst into a clearing to see a canary yellow pegasus with a grey mane and tail lying on the ground with vines wrapped around his legs, wings, and mouth. He looked up at me with a blank, confused stare. Above him floated a small pony, seemingly made of leaves and sticks. This tree pony was the one cackling.

The pixie, for lack of a better term at the time, turned to me as I entered the clearing and shouted at me. “Oh, looky what we have here! A foreign species of bird? Can’t have that, no no no. Your niche is filled raptor-bird! Go find somewhere else to roost!”

While saying this, the pixie’s eyes glowed slightly and a stick floated up and began swiping at me. I squawked, alarmed, and started ducking around. I didn’t do all that well.

Quickly, the stick cracked over my head, and I saw stars swirling in my vision. One of the stars broke away and shined even brighter before flying at the pixie. I realized as I shook my head that the star was actually Peewee, who had ignited himself and dive-bombed the pixie, who was now on fire and flying around shrieking about someone moisturizing her.

By the time I’d stood back up, the pixie was a pile of ashes, and the vines had retreated from around the pegasus. I noted that his cutie mark was a violin bow over three lines. The pegasus seemed to have passed out at some point, so I settled in for a long wait.

Peewee landed next to me and cuddled up under my wing. I allowed it as a reward for killing the pixie for me.

Author's Note:

Waiting for an editor got old, fast. So I'll make edits to it once I get it edited. In the mean time, enjoy! Comments and criticisms are welcome, as usual.

Also, I neither speak, nor write Norwegian, though I am working on that. In the meantime, have some Google Translate!

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