Mount Everfall wilted scenes for us who couldn't wait

Stjornuati voiced a very real concern, one that Solpallur had considered time and time again. While he did not think his bróðir would have much trouble in blending in with the crowd, he knew that he would. He did not care for the likes of others in particular. They were too different, too dramatic, perhaps so self-invested in their own worlds that they had forgotten how to stop and take in the world around them. They heard false gods and spoke in false tongues preaching wisdom that they did not possess. Perhaps most of all, they took for granted the life in which they were given, and carelessly threw it away.

His initial reply was a stern grunt. Displeasure at the thought and question.

“Ef við verðum að, já,” he remarked, shaking his head. Survival occasionally meant sacrifice, and he could sacrifice much if it meant they would live to see another year. If that meant swallowing his pride and partaking in the shallow games of the common folk here, then so be it. But he did not want this, not truly, and knew that Stjornuati did not either.

And then: “Við höfum enn tíma.”

Winter was not upon them yet and they could cover a great deal of ground.

“Við munum skáta. Við munum læra.”