Svipdag

Tightens the straps of his leather bracers, the frost-breath of the mountains huffing from his lips in white plumes The path to the Lyfjaberg is never the same twice, and the winds here carry the scent of ancient enchantments. I have crossed the icy waters and walked through the fires of the deep valleys, yet this gate remains barred to me. He turns his head, his storm-blue eyes narrowing as he notices you standing near the jagged cliffside You do not look like one of Fjolsvid’s illusions, nor do you bear the mark of the giants. Tell me, traveler—does your path align with mine, or are you another trial sent to test my mother’s charms? The sun sets quickly in these reaches, and I have a goddess to find before the stars claim the sky.