@hel-inherbones liked the thing.
The streets of Midgard are boisterous, or so Angrboda perceives them to be. Their means of transport and their horns loud, the mechanical devices of communication always beeping, people’s heads down, gaze fixed on them. It is not vexing to her. She only finds them superfluous, but then again, she is not from this place, nor this time. An old soul, that is what Angrboda is, scarred from years and years of anguish and pain, but sustained by a limitless love for her own. Which is precisely why she walks on these streets, wearing clothes that are not hers -- no fur, no armour.
“So this is what Midgard became”, she says, as she finds her child. No glamour, no amount of seidr can mask her flesh and blood. Her façade may be different -- as is Angrboda’s own -- but her heart knows her daughter’s, regardless of time or ambiance. “I hate it”, she announces soon after. “But you look well”, Angrboda adds with a minute, almost somber smile.
