krigets konst jag behärskar

The shadow saw her from the shadows, though the stiff breeze didn’t carry a scent. It lifted the crunchy leaves around them, swirled about his shoulders. The woman was here, but… was she here? Víðarr held his breath, afraid that the tenuous vision would dart and dance away. Was she… was she real? This woman, a tender, slight thing. A slip of a woman, the build of a messenger. Of course, they’re busy… but not too busy to send a messenger. In his mind (with the help of the mushrooms), it only made sense. It made perfect sense.

“Gná, is it word you bring?” The words were soft as they fell past his lips, a soft, hopeful glimmer in his pale eyes. The shadow could hope. He could, well and truly, hope. Freyja’s messenger, here in… not in the flesh, but here in the way that mattered most. The shadow was sure of it, and there would be no convincing him otherwise. There would never be any convincing him otherwise, after all.

"Viðarr"