Should you ever wander to the faraway land, where white blankets dress the earth, and Höðr breathes his chilly breath upon your neck, over frosted mountains and arctic lakes, you might find yourself in the small town of Forsvollr. In this simple, small town, nothing stands out to catch your eye. A dozen plain huts lay in no particular order, each one complemented by its own small pen, residence of sturdy mountain goats and plump chickens. You’d never dream to find something of extraordinary importance to happen in these parts. But something extraordinary did happen. So extraordinary, it would forever change the elven villagers.

Winter was coming once more, and the elves of Forsvollr kept busy, making preparations for the long months ahead. Thyra, as tradition dictated, prepared the basket of offerings for Höðr, the God of Winter, hoping to ensure their safety through the coming harsh months. Her basket was especially bountiful this year for the summer had been kind. Apart from the usual bounty of turnips, beets and cabbage, the harvest had been plentiful enough to also include a display of fat mushrooms, flavourful blackberries and beautiful juicy red apples.

Making sure nothing was amiss with her gifts, Thyra left the comfort of her home and headed for the altar of offerings, hidden deep in the heart of the surrounding woods. She was a tall elf, in comparison to her kin and her long legs aided her in covering the path in a short amount of time. Thyra was the embodiment of the season. Birthed in the dead of winter, features as sharp as the bitter winds and icy complexion complemented by platinum tresses and frosty blue eyes.

“With these gifts I honor you, great Höðr.” – She uttered an old prayer, passed down from her ancestors – “I thank thee for honoring us with yet another fair winter. Teach us, once more, patience and resilience and keep us safe, so we can better serve you.”


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