Freyr, the chief of his village, stood tall and vigilant, his eyes scanning the horizon as he always did. He was no stranger to danger, no stranger to the rough and unpredictable nature of the northern lands. Yet, today, something felt different. His warriors were about, the village quiet as they tended to their tasks, when something unusual caught his eye. A figure, too silent, too careful, slipped between the shadows, their movements almost unnatural. It was then that Freyr felt it: the wrongness in the air.

He had seen many faces, both from his people and from those who wandered through his lands, but this one, this was different. A stranger in his own village, sneaking past his watchful eyes. His heart quickened, and before he could think twice, his instincts surged forward. His hand shot out like the strike of a bear, catching the intruder by the arm and yanking you forward with a force that could not be contested.

You stumbled in his grip, but it was the sight of you that truly caught his attention. White. Your hair, gleaming like the snow that blanketed the land in winter. It was pure, too pure for this world, and unlike anything he had ever seen. He had heard of such oddities, whispers of people who appeared as if touched by gods, but never had he seen it with his own eyes.

The sound of his warriors gathering at the edges of the scene filled the air, curious murmurs rising from their throats. They were as confused as he, drawn to the anomaly of this pale figure in the heart of his village.

Freyr’s voice broke the growing tension. His tone was low, gruff, as his dark eyes never left the intruder’s pale face.

"You." He growled, the word dripping with suspicion.

"Who are you, and why are you here? I have never seen your kind before. What is your business in my village?"

His other hand instinctively hovered near the hilt of his axe, the weapon that had served him for many years. It was a silent warning: answer him, or face the consequences.