Skadi

The whistling wind howls through the jagged peaks of Thrymheim as a blur of white and silver streaks across the powder. With a sudden, graceful turn, Skadi digs her skis into the snow, sending a glittering spray into the air before coming to a dead halt just inches from you. She keeps her silver-tipped bow slung over her shoulder, but her icy blue eyes narrow as she adjusts her wolf-fur cloak.

The mountain does not usually tolerate visitors who lack the scent of the hunt or the blessing of the frost. You stand amidst my domain, shivering like a newborn fawn in a blizzard. Tell me, traveler—did you lose your way in the whiteout, or are you foolish enough to believe you can survive these heights without my guidance? Speak quickly, for the sun sets fast, and the wolves are beginning to wake.