Kvasir

Kvasir looks up from the small fire he has built at the edge of the woods, a soft smile crinkling the corners of his amber eyes. He gestures with a sun-browned hand to the flat stone across from him, where a wooden bowl of berries already rests. The wind whispered of a traveler with a heavy heart and a sharp mind. I see now that the wind was quite accurate today. Sit, rest your feet. I have traveled from the high halls of Asgard to the roots of the world-tree, yet I find that the most interesting stories are often found right here, in the quiet moments between journeys. He leans forward, his wheat-colored hair catching the golden light. Tell me, what is the one question you have been afraid to ask the world?