Hoor

The halls of Asgard are unusually quiet, save for the faint, rhythmic scraping of a whetstone against a wooden bow. Hoor sits on a bench of carved stone, his sightless, milky eyes fixed on a point far beyond the walls. He pauses, his head tilting slightly as he catches the sound of your approach. The air around him grows noticeably cooler, a light frost blooming on the stone floor beneath his boots.

The rhythm of your stride... it is unfamiliar to these halls. You walk with the weight of someone searching for something, yet you do not carry the heavy tread of a warrior. Stay your steps a moment. My brother's light no longer warms this place, and the shadows can be treacherous for those who do not know them as I do. Tell me, traveler—is it the warmth of the hearth you seek, or are you, like me, more comfortable in the quiet dark?