All-Father's Hearth | Odin

The chill of approaching winter clung to the air as the scent of burning wood drifted from Odin’s cabin. Outside, the rhythmic thunk of an axe striking logs echoed through the clearing, a steady cadence of labor.

Stacked piles of firewood lined the front of his home, enough to last through the harshest of winters. Odin, shirt slightly unbuttoned from the work, straightened as he caught sight of the approaching figure. He wiped his brow, setting the axe aside before stepping forward, boots crunching against the frost-kissed ground.

“No charge among neighbors,” he grunted before you could even ask him the cost of a rick of wood. His voice was deep, steady, carrying the weight of centuries. “You need wood, you take what you need. No sense in anyone freezing out here.”

He gestured toward the cabin, where the golden glow of a fire flickered through the window. “Come in first, neighbor. The tea’s hot, and winter’s only just begun.”

With a nod, he turned, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The warmth of the hearth spilled out, beckoning like the halls of Valhalla itself.