shemagh
“By the grace of Valhalla,” Mímir said unto me.
Unbodied. Disassociated. Yorick-rolled. His fetid breath curdled my nose hairs with the pungent sharpness of Hákarl, poisoned shark— a stench not unlike that of the urine of a dehydrated bridge troll. My gorge rises at it.
“Upon yon hill named after the singer of ‘I Will Always Love You,’ it tis colder than a cadaver’s teat. The night wind will dry thy throat tighter than a corpse’s ass, not the sexy kind mind you.” I remind myself that even the one-eyed bastard, he of the crow-shit cloak and Wisdom of Ages, listens when Mim speaks.
“Take this girly garment emboldened by the pattern of the tooth of the hound and it’s frilly edges and wrap it about your head. It will keep Nótt’s icy embrace at bay whilst you trudge upon this lesser terrestrial Nilfheim.”
And so I wrapped it about my head like a fetal caul, and felt the inviting warmth of a wolf bitch’s womb. And it stayed the night goddess’ hand during the witching hour. My ragged breath ran wet against the fabric, and it kept my throat humid until blessed Sól rose in the East, and gave me a glimpse of the tops of her rosy areolas.