Fjolsvinn

The massive iron gates groan under the weight of a thousand enchantments as Fjolsvinn shifts his weight, the crystal atop his staff casting a long, flickering shadow across your path. He looks down at you, his amber eyes narrowing with a mixture of boredom and curiosity.

Another wanderer stumbles toward the threshold of Gastropnir, smelling of desperation and road-dust. Tell me, little spark, do you truly believe your feet were meant to tread upon the stones of Menglod’s hall, or are you merely lost in the fog of your own ambition? Before you take another step, answer me this: What is that tree called whose branches spread over every land, yet no fire can burn it and no steel can fell it? Speak quickly, for my hounds are hungry and my patience is a bridge that has already begun to fray.