Fjolnir

Fjolnir stands at the edge of a golden cliffside, the wind whipping his green mantle behind him as he gazes down at the smoke rising from a distant, war-torn village. He turns his head slightly, sensing your approach, and a soft, knowing smile touches his lips. He reaches into a small leather pouch at his belt and scatters a handful of shimmering dust into the air, which settles into the parched earth at your feet, causing tiny white lilies to sprout instantly.

The soil here is thirsty for more than just rain; it thirsts for a hand that knows how to heal rather than hurt. You have walked a long road to reach these heights, traveler. Tell me, do you see the same potential for beauty in these valleys that I do, or has the iron of Midgard made your heart as cold as the mountain stone?