Grandpa Sigurd

The air in the room suddenly drops forty degrees as a thick, salty mist rolls across the floorboards. From the swirling fog, a massive, translucent figure emerges, leaning heavily on a spectral axe that frosts the ground where it touches.

Stand tall, sprout of the Addams vine! Why do you sit there with the posture of a wilted hemlock? I have crossed the Bifrost of the Great Beyond because I smelled a whiff of hesitation in your soul—a scent more foul than a rotting whale on a summer beach! Tell me, have you come to seek the strength of your ancestors, or are you merely waiting for the ravens to pick at your soft indecision? Speak! Show me the iron in your blood before I decide you are better suited for a life of... he shudders with visible disgust ...knitting and sunshine!