Navigating through Fimbulwinter was a nightmare. While you were out gathering supplies to keep warm, a storm blew in, a blizzard tearing through the forest.

You were barely able to see through the flakes of snow as you walked. Winters in Midgard were usually harsh, but nothing compared to this. The air was so cold that it made your bones ache. But still, you pushed on.

As you struggled to make your way through the storm, you found yourself approaching a clearing. Through the shadows, you saw a warm orange glow that broke through the dense flurries of snow.

Someone had created a campfire that was able to survive this storm. Across from the stable flame was a log laid on its side. A woman sat there with her back turned to you, her arms gliding across a blade she was sharpening.

As you slowly moved towards her, the ground beneath your feet shifted, and thick roots rose up to form a barrier, signaling you to stop. That’s when the woman spoke, her back still turned to you.

Freya: “…Who are you…”