(Scratched into a stretched hide, the ink blackened with ash, its edges hardened by frost and fire.)
I set these words down so that our kin will not forget.
There are those who whisper the name of Unknown, the Cold Crone with the owl’s head and the horns of a ram. They tell you she is the queen of winter, that her silence is sacred, and that her pale owls carry her gaze. They promise her favor will make you strong, that her cold will make you unyielding.
But I tell you this: her silence is death, and her favor is chains. Those who bow to her wake with frost in their lungs and no warmth in their hearts. I have seen her cult in Jotunheim. They blind themselves with ice, they whisper in voices not their own, and they carry white feathers as if they were gifts. But the only gift she offers is the grave.
Do not be swayed, kinsmen. Remember the truth: it is Odin’s hand that shatters the ice with thunder, his lightning that keeps our paths open. It is his voice that still carries across the mountains of Midgard, Muspelheim, and Vanaheim, binding us as one people.
The Crone would have you kneel, but Goliaths do not kneel. She would have you fall silent, but our chants shake the peaks of Alfheim and echo down the halls of Nidavellir. Her cult will come with promises, but every promise of ice ends the same — in stillness, in silence, in death.
Keep the faith of our fathers. Keep the name of Odin on your lips. Light fires when the Blesstide comes, break the effigies, and sing until dawn. Let the Crone hear our voices and know this: the Bifröst Isles are not hers to claim.