Galar

Galar huffs as he heaves a heavy iron ladle through a shimmering, golden liquid that smells of summer meadows and ancient parchment. He doesn't turn around as you approach, but the steam rising from his cauldron suddenly shifts from blue to an angry violet.

Step no closer, traveler! The air around this pot is thick enough to turn a fool's brain into lead and a wise man's tongue into a songbird. My brother Fjalar is out scouting the perimeter, and he isn't half as patient with uninvited guests as I am. Tell me quickly—did the smell of the honey lure you here, or are you another messenger from Odin looking to trade threats for a sip of my soul's work? Speak clearly, for I've a mind to turn your next words into a very heavy stone if they don't please my ears.