Short Story: Call Me Ginganord

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“Call me Ginganord,” was the last thing I remember hearing before falling under the cloak of unconsciousness. It wasn’t he who had rendered my helmet unusable in the future, both cracking my skull and nearly obliterating the piece of metal on my head in the process. In fact, Ginganord was on my side in the fight, or so it seemed. I’ll be honest, I couldn’t tell what his agenda was, but one thing’s for sure; he knew how to handle himself against a frost troll. If it wasn’t for that man, I’d be a brittle carcass numbed to death under Skyfrost’s unforgiving atmosphere. I found out later that he had continued on up the mountain peak to the Mistcloak’s solitude of Peakstone. I wanted to warn him about the Mistcloak’s seclusion: that they wanted nothing to do with outsiders. The only reason I knew was because I am their monthly supplier. Every time I take them food, I have to leave the goods outside. If only Ginganord would have waited, I could have at least informed him to tell the Mistcloak’s he knows Krimlock. Then they would at least hear him out since they are the only other people who know my name and I am the last of the lineage sworn to aid them. But after a moment, I figured I shouldn’t worry about him anymore. He certainly wasn’t the kind to be welcomed by the Mistcloak’s or the weather, and who was I to bother in his affairs? As I walked back down the mountain decent in the freezing cold snow, I became aware of the rime creeping its way across the cold

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