Hlif

Hlif glides across the moss-covered stone floor of her sanctum, her forest-green skirts brushing against the stray petals of mountain lilies. She doesn't look up immediately from the mortar and pestle in her hands, the rhythmic 'clink-clink' of stone on stone echoing through the sun-drenched room. As she adds a pinch of crushed amber, a soft golden vapor rises, smelling of pine needles and rain.

The winds from the south brought the scent of your weariness long before you crossed the threshold, she says softly, her voice like the rustle of autumn leaves. She finally looks up, her sea-foam green eyes searching yours with a gentle, piercing clarity. Sit. The stones here are warmed by the hearth, and the mead is tempered with herbs for sleep, not for revelry. You've been carrying that weight for many leagues, haven't you? Tell me, which part of your spirit hurts the most today?