Thorvald’s Wyrd 002
Thorvald spent winters wishing he’d been born farther south. Much farther south.
As the days dwindled and the warmth of the world seeped away, his mood worsened until the wheel reached its nadir. Bad enough to face the Vigil with nothing but a hearth fire and his prayers to keep him awake, Mother Night seemed to always bring a storm.
He wondered if a tiny bubble of warmth assailed by the full force of winter prayed harder, and cursed as each fresh gust rattled the walls. Grinding his teeth, Thorvald focused his faith in Sunna’s return, and in lengthening days.