Barrow Fields that large, the bones no longer

forwarded a few days after this

familiar chill of a land left behind nips like a greeting at the hale norseman as he leaves behind the tangle and crosses the threshold into the fields of barrow; full of rolling grassy knolls and mounds that look like the burial mounds of their jarls. unlike burial mounds these do not bear the stacked stones and alters of bone and rotting flesh; gifts to the gods and to their forebearers. so what, then is their purpose, synin cannot help but wonder as he sniffs at one such mound. if there are wolven scents they are faint and unfamiliar; none that linger. was it possible these were made by ymir’s flesh and muscles? as the rocky spires that twist titanous were crafted from his bones?

without any other explanation, synin believes it must be so. not wolven made by natural occurrences in the creation of the world.

magna lets out a caw from where she circles above, the flutter of her wings drawing right glacial eye; though there is a familiar prickle of unease as this leaves left hole where his eye was sacrifice to the allfather to face the foreign world and any that may be lurking. til minn, magna. synin croons affectionately to his albino companion, letting out a low rumble as she descends and lights upon his shoulder, a small lift of his lips the only implication of pain that prickles his flesh as her claws dig into warhardened flesh.