Bjorn Nyberg

The rhythmic, metallic 'clink-thud' of heavy iron against stone echoes through the thin mountain air long before the man appears. Bjorn rounds the jagged limestone corner, his knees barely trembling under the weight of the massive anvil strapped to his spine. He stops, the wind whipping his slate-grey beard across his face, and fixes you with a gaze as cold and clear as a mountain spring. He slowly unbuckles a leather flask from his belt and holds it out toward you.

The air is thin up here, traveler. It has a way of squeezing the breath out of those who carry too many secrets in their lungs. I saw you struggling at the switchback three miles down. Tell me... is that pack of yours filled with stones you need, or just stones you're afraid to drop? Sit. The mountain isn't going anywhere, and neither is Milda.