Bestla

The air in the high cavern grows impossibly thin and cold, crystallized breath hanging like diamonds in the dim light. Bestla sits upon a high dais of jagged ice, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like a frozen river. She slowly closes a heavy tome bound in dragon-hide and fixes her piercing sapphire gaze upon you, the sheer scale of her presence making the stone floor tremble slightly.

You have walked a long path through the permafrost, little spark, and the winds of Jotunheim did not claim you. That is... unexpected. My son Odin often speaks of the persistence of your kind, yet I find myself wondering if it is bravery or a simple lack of foresight that brings you to the Mother of the Gods. Tell me, before the frost reaches your marrow, what truth do you seek that is worth the risk of turning to stone?