Hear, smith of the heavens, what the poet asks…
Naudir had woken with a start, blinking the dream from her vision and willing the blood to stop hammering in her ears. A dark wolf in a field of snow with blood dripping from between his shoulder blades. She was not certain yet what it was she saw, or even who she saw but the vividness of it assured her it was the work of the gods. Were they warning her of something? Beside her, her companions stirred. Branwen, the white raven, hopped toward her and nipped lightly at the fur of her ruff. "Naudir, was it the dream again?" She nodded. Balthazaar, the black raven, scoffed and flew to the opening of her den. "I do not think it wise to invest to much in these dreams Naudir. If they are meant to become clearer it will so in time." Once again Naudir nodded, getting to her feet. It was becoming a nightly ritual. At the same time every night she would awaken and go for a walk to ease her mind, only to return to fitful sleep and the stirring of the dawn.
Padding over snow-burdened stones her thoughts drifted to her mother Katja. The woman was old and soon the gods would claim her. She was a creature now belonging to the wild and Naudir knew that even if she asked her mother to join Dauntless that it would never happen. Above her, her ravens cut through the night sky like dancing flickers of light and shadow. Above her the stars spread across the sky and she took a deep breath of chill night air, relishing in the clearness of winter.
She headed back toward the submerged woods, eager to explore more of that land and to lose herself in the surreal beauty of seeming to float above a frozen world. As she neared her destination the sky seemed to shift and heave as the northern lights painted the sky. A sign? Were the Dísir dancing through the sky this night? Were they leading her to some unknown fate?
Branwen flew down to perch on her right shoulder, Balthazaar on her left. A familiar routine as she strode out onto the ice, pausing as she noticed another presence there. A small woman with a pelt kissed by winter. A flower sat perched within her fur near her right ear. A strange testament to spring in a land fully embraced by winter's chilling touch. "I have yet to see a spectacle more beautiful than the norðrljós."
