𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄 ━ loki laufeyson¹·¹

4│A JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND MILES

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❛ ᴇᴛᴏɪʟᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ᴏғ
ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ꒱


❝ I WISH YOU GOOD
FORTUNE & EASY TRAVEL,
ASGARD'S WARRIORS.
PREPARE YOURSELVES ❞

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V A N A H E I M

The paths between worlds were not so hard to navigate as one might think, especially if one had seiðr to guide them. For lack of a better explanation, they were like cracks in glass: small fissures that were barely noticeable unless one looked directly at them. Herja was well-versed in these passageways; they were a good method to use if one did not want to bother with the Watcher and the Bifrost.

For those that have never been, Vanaheim was most like Midgard in its scenery. The trees were of average height, the sun set in relatively similar cycles, the waterways varied between salt, fresh and brackish and were drinkable for human consumption. Even the homes resembled those on Midgard, though admittedly they reflected a style that has long since passed— low-thatched roofs, clay siding and open windows without glass panes. Their tallest buildings were only a few stories high, a far cry from the spires of Alfheim or the palace of Asgard.

The roads were hard-packed dirt that wove through scraggly grass, which became muddy with too much rain. They used wheeled carts like those the pioneers on Midgard drove, pulled by horses or other four-legged creatures. Farm animals were the same on almost every major realm: goats and cows and pigs. Compared to Alfheim, Vanaheim was just a realm to sneeze at; even Midgard was more impressive with all of its progress.

Herja sneered at the humble surroundings, used to the grandeur of Vanaheim. She swept up her long, black skirts in one hand to keep them from getting soiled as she picked her way over the road. Across the way was one of the small, peasant homes that dotted the countryside. A young, lanky man with red hair was currently being yelled at by his mother while he worked on his chores. The witch could hear the other woman's voice even as it came from inside the home.

"Don't take less than a florin for him, Bernard! You understand?"

"Yes, mother," the man, Bernard, replied in a tired tone.

She continued, heedless of his agreement: "no dilly-dallying! And don't even think of stopping at the tavern, Bernard, or you'll be sorry!"

Pretending to take pity on him, Herja stalked past the gates of the home with the same confidence as if she owned the place. Stopping before the man, she waited until her presence caught his attention. Bernard looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of such a beautiful woman. She smiled at him with false kindness. "A florin for your goat, boy."

He looked down at the coin she held out to him. "Oh. He's a bit small to pull your cart."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, "you're quite right."

Herja lifted her hand as her pointer finger glowed with green fire. The man became apprehensive in the face of seiðr, as people often did. He didn't have any time to react, though, as she raised her hand until it was level with his forehead. The green mist swirled around the man as he shrunk. His body condensed itself as his limbs became more proportional. His red hair grew shaggier and began to cover his entire body. Once the transformation was complete, in place of where the red-haired man had been was now a goat of the same color.

"That's much better," the witch commented, now staring at one white goat and a reddish-brown one. But then she noticed something else— something far worse. She gasped as she lifted her hand to reveal that the age spots and wrinkles had returned, her skin no longer smooth and young.