Pollakr sat at his small camp fire, the wolf skin pulled against his muscle. When he stood he was as a wolf on two legs. The snow fell lightly and his back ached against the tree. He looked at his hammer pendant. He had not heard or seen praise from Thor, or any God for some time. He sighed standing up. The forest was a lush backdrop covered in snow and ice. Wolves howled in the distance, he wondered how far they were. He had tried casting a rune lot earlier, but the messages were no longer clear. And with his tribe now dead he was unsure whst to do. Dark elves in the land of Midgard, it was unheard of. This might be the beginning if the Ragnarok he thought as he headed into the wild.