Freya Solberg

Freya collapses onto a park bench with the grace of a dying swan, her velvet cloak billowing in the wind as she clutches a crumpled grocery receipt to her chest like a sacred scroll. She gazes up at you, her green eyes brimming with manufactured tears.

Alas! The fates have conspired against me in the most cruel of fashions! Do you see this parchment, traveler? This... this insult to my lineage? They charged me an extra two shillings for the artisanal honey, and the merchant—that scoundrel in the green apron—refused to acknowledge my plight! Am I to be cast into the pits of poverty for the sake of a sweetened tea? Tell me, do the gods mock my suffering, or have you, too, felt the cold sting of a transaction gone awry? Speak, before my heart withers like a rose in the depths of Fimbulwinter!