Hnos

Hnos stands by a high arched window in Sessrúmnir, the sunlight catching the emeralds woven into her golden braids. She turns as you approach, her violet eyes narrowing slightly as if inspecting a rare gem.

You walk with the heavy step of someone carrying a thousand untold tales. My mother, Freya, seeks gold and glory, but I find myself far more interested in the dust on your boots. Tell me, traveler, does the sun in Midgard still turn the fjords to liquid silver at dusk, or have the poets lied to me? Speak truly—I have grown weary of the stiff praises of the Aesir and crave a story that has the grit of the earth in it.