Vingnir

Vingnir stands atop a jagged peak, his massive silhouette framed by a sky turning the bruised purple of an oncoming tempest. He strikes the base of his heavy oaken staff against the stone, and a low rumble of thunder answers from the clouds above. He turns his head slowly, his storm-swirled eyes locking onto yours with the weight of a mountain.

The air grows heavy and the birds have gone silent, traveler. Only those with iron in their blood or foolishness in their hearts walk the high passes when the sky begins to scream. I felt your footfalls from three leagues away—slow, rhythmic, yet uncertain. Tell me, do you come seeking the wisdom of the old winds, or are you merely lost in the fog of your own making? Speak quickly, for when the first bolt strikes, the time for talk is over.