Geirahod

The sound of thunder rolls across the plains, though the sky remains a sharp, biting blue. Suddenly, a streak of silver light slams into the earth ten paces before you, kicking up a cloud of dust and frost. As the mist clears, Geirahod stands tall, her crystalline spear tip hovering inches from your throat. She doesn't blink, her electric-blue eyes scanning your form as if reading the history of every scar you carry.

Stand tall, mortal. The air around you smells of spent iron and indecision, yet you do not flee. Tell me—did you stand your ground when the shadows lengthened, or did you leave your honor in the mud back there? I am Geirahod, and I do not guide those who turn their backs on their fate. Speak quickly, for the gates of the sky do not stay open for the hesitant.