gjalla dipped her head in acknowledgment, the faintest nod. she moved at an easy downhill pace, long strides carving through the crusted snow. not once did she look back to check if the pale woman followed; she trusted the footfalls behind her to speak for themselves.
eirwen. a hard name. a cold one, befitting of the valkyries from home.
eirwen. a hard name. a cold one, befitting of the valkyries from home.
it suits you.she murmured. the wind swept low over the slope, tugging at the long guard hairs along her shoulders, carrying with it the scent of ice and pine sap—cleaner than what she’d been breathing in as of late. whatever had been plaguing the northern-most mountain must have dissipated.
whatever you’ve lost,gjalla began again,
it hasn’t taken your spine.a dry note, almost approving.
the rest can be pieced together. what of your empire do you remember, if anything?the questions are repetitive, she knows, but there is no other way to help but to ask.
