Once his world was that of the plow and the oxen, of caring for his crops and his family. That was before the vision. He fell amidst his rows of wheat, screaming and wailing. By the time his laborers found him, his clothes were rent and he was shivering in a fetal position. He let them lead him home, but all he could think of was the vision. This land would be consumed with fire and water, darkness would rule the land. Those alone who would know joy would be those who died, fighting the inevitable with honor. The next hour found him at the marketplace, crying out to passers-by of the end of days, of the last chance of redemption. He would not leave his post in the city, nor the others theirs. In every city in the land, the same cry can be heard—”The end is at hand! Ragnarok approaches!”