Jotunheim
for @the-silver-son
The thing about Svartalfheim was that it was one of the better gossip hubs in the Nine — not that that had any bearing on her being there. Truthfully, Svava did her best to avoid the hearsay, especially from the Elves, who were notoriously hyperbolic. However, every few decades they got their grubby hands on something big enough there was no room left to exaggerate, no element available to twist that could possibly make the news any more unbelievable.
And whispers of Jotunheim reopening itself to the other realms was hard to ignore.
She let it slide, at first; Dark Elves weren’t the most reliable, after all, but the more she overheard, the more curiosity itched for answers. Unfortunately, buying her way through one of the Snake Face tribe’s portals to Jotunheim was not cheap, and no one cared to add the rumor of a new king until just before her departure. To her benefit, in all likelihood. It was probably best Laufey not be the one there to greet her after the wars, even if she personally had no part in them.
Rarely did her travels call for preparation — and she much preferred the freedom having no plans provided — but Svava cursed herself the moment her feet hit ice. She forgot how bloody cold Jotunheim was, frozen air burning her lungs and burrowing through two layers of wool to begin numbing her skin on contact. Only a handful of visits from her younger days served to orient her, but thankfully the portal spat her out close enough to the palace that she could make it there before the cold froze the blood in her veins.
No one stopped her approach, which was odd, but a welcome comfort. As a warrior, caution came as easily as breathing, and it was nice to know Asgardians weren’t to be persecuted on sight or anything. Although, the closer she got, the more questions that vied for her attention. Had there been some sort of brokering of peace between the two realms that she’d missed news of? She hoped not. Half of the reason she came was bolstered by the belief that no one there would know who or what she was — the other half a curiosity induced need for a change of scenery. Surely Jotunheim would be a great vacation spot with the appropriate attire.
It wasn’t until she walked through the doors, unhindered, that she realized she was going in blind. That brazen confidence had been a positive attribute during her days as a Valkyrie, but now it was more likely to get her into trouble. Unfortunately, that thought encouraged more than discouraged. It’d been a while since her last scuffle.
“Can I help you?”
Svava would be lying if she said that voice didn’t catch her off guard, but she made damn sure not to show it. Eyeing the woman, evidently a servant of some sort, and marking her threat level as low, she answered, “I am here to see the king.” And hopefully not be tossed back to Asgard. Any Jotun king sounded better to her than an audience with Odin and his one-eyed scrutiny, after all these years.
“Follow me.”
The servant turned on her heel and did not wait for her to react, leaving Svava to hurry after her while her limbs regained some feeling.
“Wait here,” the woman instructed, taking her leave before any more could have been said. Svava turned away from the door once it shut and inspected her surroundings. It was pretty obviously the throne room, expansive, empty, and silent. Not wanting to stand awkwardly by the door until someone returned, she drifted over to the side of the room to admire a piece of ice art, swaying from side-to-side to keep warm.
