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footprints in the snow
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There was a moment as the figure drew closer that Svea thought it might by Gylfi, he elder brother, somehow manifesting in her dreams. It hadn’t happened before, but he and Nils had both gone off to join the Sword Brothers and she hoped at least one of them had made it all the way into the Company of the Wolf. If so, Gylfi would have been there first. She knew that she wasn’t as dishonorable as her father likely believed, but it was comforting to think that at least one, or both, of the three siblings had made it to the highest ranks of the warriors in the religion.

It wasn’t him, though. He walked differently than Svea remembered, and when the figure neared, it was clear that it was not her brother at all. She wouldn’t turn him away for that, but it was slightly disappointing. It also made it all the more interesting. Never before had she dreamed up a stranger, and she wasn’t certain what it meant.

She smiled warmly as he introduced himself, and offered her right, unscarred hand to him. “I’m Svea,” she replied, studying his hood. Naturally she had seen the like before, but she’d never really paid any interest into the details of the wolf’s head. It was intricate and matched nearly everything else in regards to the god, even Svea’s pendant.

She realized she was getting distracted and looked back into the man, Eskel’s face and saw that he, like Jorg, had two different colored eyes, and smiled at the thought of her charge. “It’s not everyday I dream up a Fylgirvitnir,” she said casually.




photo © matthias klaiber on flickr



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