They had split up. Matej had not been very convinced of the idea and it had only been the assurance that Freyja would protect his sister while they were separated from one another. Of course, he did not have the abilities of the Seers. He could not directly communicate with the Gods, it was not his talent. He was a Berserker — not a Seer; but a forceful gust of wind on an otherwise windless day and he was convinced that the goddess had heard and would take up the task. Confident that the queen of valkyries would not allow harm to befall his sister, the guardian had agreed to the split though he headed into the direction of the Wilds with unbidden haste. It made him nervous, being parted from her. He prowled like a beast through the night, his coat of ash gray and platinum silver cut through the shadows that had blanketed the lands, guided by Mani's softer light where it touched upon the shadowed lands.

The forest he had shrugged into was lush, towering, tall ancient trees that stretched heavenwards, their thick canopy above working to shield him from Mani's guiding light. “þakka þér, Mani.” The Berserker murmured quietly to the moon in the guttural language that was his native tongue. Any of Saga's trails had no doubt ran cold by now but the Gods would not lead him in the wrong direction and with that assertion firm in his mind he continued through the King Elk Forest, glacial eyes fierce as they swept the shadows that writhed around him, his ears alert for noises foreign to the serenade of the night.

This hyper vigilance was rewarded by the sound of softened footfalls against the bracken covered forest floor, his ears swiveling to the side, before they slicked back to rest at half mast atop his skull. The footfalls were drawing nearer to his position and the Beserker's steps slowed, ceasing only when the tentative sounding hello breached the silence between them. He inhaled deep and exhaled slowly, taking in her scent as it faintly wafted towards him, calm. She was a sylph of a thing, her narrower features telling of a coy heritage. Matej recognized the tongue she spoke in easily enough, but then again he had not earned the name Asgrim “the chief of tongues” for no reason. “Hello,” He replied after a few seconds, his voice accented heavily with the lingering wont of his native tongue.