Liv, like most people, had spent some moderate amount of time pondering the possibilities of the afterlife; the Eddas offered a few options after all. There were the battlefields of Fólkvangr, and the barrack-like halls of Valhǫll for those who died in battle. For everyone else there was the quiet and welcoming realm of Hel. As a graphic designer in her 30s, she’d always just assumed that after a long and quiet life, she would join her ancestors in the latter’s peaceful halls.

Her mental image of those halls was rather vague, the Eddas didn’t give much to go on in that regard, but if this was Hel then the gods must have instituted some serious budget cuts. What she certainly had NOT anticipated was being at the foot of a gnarled oak tree on an otherwise dark and barren plane. The leafless thing’s branches looked unnaturally sharp, lending it a menace she was not accustomed to associating with trees of all things. The feeling was only compounded as she laid eyes on the dangling noose. This wasn’t just some tree, this was a gallows.

“Where…?” She muttered, turning in a swift circle. The air was frigid, prompting her to rub her arms to fend it off. She was distracted from her befuddled turning by the hollow, metallic caw of a raven. Snapping her head upward to look into the branches she saw a pair of the large corvids observing her. Then it all came together. The ravens, the tree, the noose… Óðinn.

“Greetings, honored dead.” Came the tinny croak of the one on the left.

“Honored… Oh. Oh no! No no no!” Liv put her hands forward, shaking her head vehemently. “There’s been a mistake! Honored dead? I’m an artist! I’m no soldier!” Part of her realized that she was objecting to the wrong part of that title and she really should be more concerned with the fact that she was apparently DEAD than that some cosmic clerical error had somehow put her on the wrong train.

The second raven leaned in, looking her over from their perch.

“You died in combat.” It explained. Liv shook her head in denial. She’d been in more scrapes in her life than she cared to admit, but the fact that she knew how to fight didn’t change her loathing of it.

“No I didn’t! I… I uhh…” Only now did it occur to her that she had no clue at all how she had ended up here. “I don’t remember.”

“Head trauma.” The first raven said sagely with a bob of its head. “Not unexpected. You might be a little fuzzy on details for a while.” Before Liv could even wrap her mind around that, he continued. “Having your skull caved in with a tire iron will do that to you.”

Liv felt sick. Could dead people GET sick? She sat down on the cold dirt and hugged her knees to her chest.

“Huginn, can you not see her distress?” The second raven scolded before soaring down to land nearby. “You died in defense of another. You fought bravely in a battle you could not win. You saved a life.” The bird, who could only be Muninn, consoled. “And now you are claimed for Valhǫll!” The black bird exclaimed happily. Liv curled her fingers into her hair as the gravity of what was happening started to sink in. Flying down, Huginn landed beside his brother.

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“The choice is made. The coin was tossed, and Óðinn will have his due.” Huginn said coolly. “Ragnarök comes.”

Liv was shaking now, overwhelmed.

Muninn looked her up and down before cocking his head toward his brother uncertainly. Huginn ruffled his feathers, dismissing the unspoken inquiry.

“Do not worry. The Allfather has a plan.”

Muninn only twisted his head in silent curiosity.

“She’ll make an excellent Dungeon.” Huginn expounded. Even in her state, that caught Liv by surprise.

“What?” She sniffed.

“Ah! Yes of course!” Muninn bobbed in agreement.

“A d- I don’t understand.” She whispered.

“You will.” Huginn said in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine. The world around them was dimming, raven feathers tickling around the edges of her vision.

“Wait! What am I supposed to do?!” She pleaded.

Muninn’s words were distant echoes now.

“Defend your core!”

Darkness closed and she found herself adrift. Afloat in a warm void where silence reigned, Liv felt her terror slowly ebb as she considered what she’d been told. A dungeon? What the hell did that mean? Was she supposed to design some kind of complex, or a defensive structure? She was no architect! But they had to know that, right?

She was a lifelong gamer, so when it came to the concepts behind such things, she was sure she could lay out something effective. But actually building it? That was a whole different ball game.

She drifted in that empty place for what felt like ages. With no other object or even sensory input to distract her, her mind latched onto the only thing it had to keep away from the gnawing dread of mortality. She fixated on the role she’d been given. She began racking her brain for old maps and layouts. For once she felt grateful that she’d been cursed to forever be the DM of her friend group.

“Okay, think it through. How do you make a cave, or a mineshaft secure?” She mumbled to herself. Thinking of pinch points and high ground… Gods she hoped this was what they meant. She was going to be useless if Óðinn wanted a more historically accurate dungeon. If she had to draw up blueprints to some kind of torture basement she was going to fail at this SO HARD.

Her musings were interrupted when she felt the sudden tug of gravity. Light bloomed beneath her as she tumbled into whatever strange afterlife this was shaping up to be, still utterly clueless as to what she was supposed to do.

For the second time that day, the sight that greeted her was not at all what she anticipated. The light flared as thick, warm air flowed past. Then she landed in a brackish muck with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she lifted her face up out of the black mud. Her vision pierced the top of the skummy puddle, allowing her to take in the soggy, stinking swamp into which she’d been unceremoniously dumped.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”