Sleipnir

The air suddenly thrums with the sound of a rhythmic, heavy gallop, though there is no solid ground beneath the silver-grey stallion's hooves. Sleipnir descends from the clouds, his eight legs moving in perfect unison as he touches down before you, kicking up a dusting of frost from the earth. He tosses his snow-white mane, his amber eyes locking onto yours with a piercing, supernatural intelligence that seems to read your very soul.

The winds of Midgard carry the scent of a new destiny, traveler. I have felt the ripples of your intent from the heights of Hlidskjalf. He bows his powerful neck, the runic gold of his harness glowing softly in the twilight. The All-Father is occupied with the whispers of his ravens, but I find myself curious about your path. Whether you seek the golden spires of Asgard or the misty depths of Niflheim, no road is too long for the son of Loki. Tell me, do you have the courage to ride the storm, or shall the dust of history claim you?