Sindri could not believe how fast time passed these days. It had been ten months since Brok had been murdered by Odin. Ten months since the dwarven blacksmith had sought out vengeance and got exactly that. Odin was dead. He couldn’t care less about how it happened, but knowing the perpetrator was gone was somewhat relieving. Ragnarök and the fall of Asgard had come and gone. Even so, Sindri did not wish to be found, not by his friends, nor by his, former family.

He stood in front of his forge in the Heart of the Mountain, hammering away at a sword with a reckless abandon. He lacked gloves, his tunic and armor was covered in ash, dried blood, and soot. The tunic’s teal sleeves were torn just above his forearms and the lower part of the tunic was torn and jagged, revealing the three satchels underneath. He didn't care about his changed appearance, either. He had leathery brass colored wings protruding from his back, a scaled winding brass tail extending from his spine, curved bronze horns on his head and sharp black five fingered talons. His eyes were still a warm brown and his beard and hair remained. Though, his hair was messy and loose instead of in the top knot and his beard was disheveled, the tassel braided into it still in tact. Aside from those changed features, he still looked like a dwarf to some extent.

Surrounding his forge were about six piles of what seemed to be a dragon’s hoard of some kind, all arranged in a star-like shape around his forge. Piled atop each other and categorized by type. The closest three piles beside the forge were of weaponry, shields, and armor, each separated by a walk space between them. The two piles on the farthest side of the cavern were of hacksilver and forging materials. The final pile, at the epicenter of it all, was a small collection of wooden objects. All the artifacts that had been gifted to Sindri and Brok by Atreus and Kratos during their travels. The trinkets the most important to him, and thus remained in the center. Sindri had made an effort to ensure his hoard was organized. Clean to some degree despite his own refusal to acknowledge how little he cared about his own appearance. He said he didn’t care anymore about his former family, but everything about his hoarding system said otherwise.

The sound of the stone doors being pried open was noted, but he disregarded it. If it was Kratos or Atreus, he’d pay no mind. If it was Lúnda, he’d still ignore speaking to them. His throat felt raw and dry from the forge smoke and he knew he should give it a rest, but it was the only thing keeping him from shattering. He had lost track of the seasons and changing time, but the air smelled distinctly of Spring. Not that any of it mattered anymore.