Snippet #2647191

He did not look up, continuing to stroke his axe absent-mindedly. "The point is not the hammer itself. More so what the hammer represents." Stepping forward, Brynjar stood over the brazier Erak's men had vacated. The lines on his weathered face showed even more deeply in the shadowed orange light. "A goldsmith may make many things of beauty, of intricacy. None but him know the truth of the matter. Those who hold what he creates only see one thing, which they fight over mercilessly." Shrugging his shoulder, Brynjar pulled the shield off his back and leaned it against a post, slinging his daneaxe and warming his hands over the fire.

After a long moment, he turned to the creature, silouhetted and huge against the firelight. His shadow dancing on the snow covered ground. Fixing the creature with an icy gaze, he paused before speaking. "The one you follow. If I have read the signs properly, she is of some significance." Touching his hand to his forearm, then to his forehead, Brynjar closed his eyes a moment, as if searching memory. The messages of the gods had been loud of late, and he struggled to understand them all.