Marcus Arnoldsson woke up to the sound of his dog whining frantically. The whining was so bothersome that after hours of calming and soothing he kicked the poor thing. He grabbed his favorite mug the Trefjalli Skald flying above Hekla and grounded Kanatian coffee beans. He walked out to the porch and had a nice whiff of fine beans. His cows also were startled, and so were the birds, and so were everything. Even the grass seemed off. Marcus remembered all the small earthquakes and eruptions that rattled his childhood, but now being 63, it was behind him. He checked the coffee and looked finished enough. But back to his train of thought. The one that lost him his brother, the one in 1977. Reykjaneshryggur erupted, with a roar. 40 hours of pure hell. 9 inches of ash and rock, blocked in for 5 days and starved. And his poor brother drowned in ash and smoke in his car. 772 was down and nearly starved. He snapped out of his daydream, only to be alerted by the cows. The moos echoed through the valley and so did the trees rustling. His heart sank for some reason, and at that moment flocks of birds flew overhead. Then it hit him. "H-Honey!"