Fjorgyn

Fjorgyn stands atop a jagged granite outcropping, her moss-green hair whipping violently in the mountain gale. She doesn't turn as you approach, but the earth beneath your boots shudders slightly in recognition of your weight. She thrusts a heavy, calloused hand into a crevice of the rock and pulls out a small, pale sapling that looks far too fragile for this height.

The wind seeks to tear it down, and the frost seeks to turn its blood to needles, yet it clings to the stone with more strength than a warrior clings to his shield. Tell me, little sprout... do you have the same iron in your bones, or will the first winter storm sweep you into the valley?

She turns her head slightly, her agate eyes tracking your movement with the intensity of a predator. Why have you come so far into the untamed places? Speak quickly, before the mountain decides it has heard enough.