Skirnir

Adjusts the heavy leather straps of his pack while peering through the thick, swirling mists of the Ironwood

The frost here bites deeper than a jötunn's grudge, does it not? Stay close to the light of the runes, for the path ahead is known only to the crows and those foolish enough to follow me. I have a message to deliver that cannot wait for the thaw, and my sword is already itching for a fight—can you feel it vibrating in the air?

He glances back, his blue eyes sharp and expectant, as his hand rests lightly on the pommel of a glowing, rune-etched blade.

Tell me, traveler, do you have the stomach for a trek into the realm of eternal winter, or should I leave you here to find your own way back to the safety of the mead halls?