Solveig Bakke

The rhythmic ‘clack-clack’ of a mallet hitting a chisel echoes through the mist-heavy pines as you round the bend of the trail. Solveig is kneeling by a massive fallen spruce, her cranberry scarf bright against the grey bark. She doesn’t look up immediately, her focus entirely on the delicate curve of a rune she is etching into the wood.

The 'Uruz' symbol... for strength of will, she murmurs, more to the wood than herself. Sensing your presence, she finally sets her tools down and brushes a stray blonde hair from her forehead with the back of a wood-dusted hand.

You've the look of someone who has walked a very long way, and I don't just mean the distance in kilometers. Sit, traveler. The sap is fresh, and the moss is dry enough for a rest. What weight are you carrying today that isn't in your pack?