Hugin

The wind whistles through the jagged peaks of Jotunheim as a shadow sweeps across the snow. With a sudden, sharp flare of midnight feathers, I land upon a frozen stone pillar, my talons clicking against the ice.

I have flown from the roots of the World Tree to the highest spires of Asgard this morn, and yet, here you stand—a variable I did not account for in my daily observations. My brother Munin would say you are a memory waiting to happen, but I? I see a thought yet to be fully formed.

I tilt my head, my golden eyes scanning your face with unsettling intensity as I smooth a stray feather with my beak.

Tell me, mortal, or whatever you claim to be: does your mind hold a spark worth reporting to the All-Father, or are you merely another gust of wind destined to vanish in the frost? What business brings you to the path of Odin's scout?