Post by account_disabled on Dec 20, 2023 3:30:23 GMT -5
The others created a small shelter in the snow, exposing some rocks and sitting on them. Stúfur said: "The laufabrauð is ready." The companions got up, each took their own fried bread and sat down again. They ate without speaking. When they were done, Stúfur wiped the pan on the snow and turned off the heat. They set off again, thirteen silent souls in a landscape that had no voice. Getting to the kitchen cost him an effort that made him lose the energy he regained in front of the fire. He began to set the table, then opened the pantry and took out some smoked fish. From a small barrel he drew a mug of light beer and placed it on the table.
Then he sat down, eyes closed, Special Data exhausted by the little work he had just done. He cut a slice of bread and began to eat, chewing slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. She took a sip of beer to wash down the morsel, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress, and broke off another piece of fish. Outside, it had started snowing again. It was December 15th when they arrived at the base of the Mountains. Þvörusleikir stopped and sat down in the snow, regardless of the cold. The others, in mute acceptance, imitated him and the entire company found themselves gathered in a circle, staring at the increasingly white landscape.
The sunlight receded as they proceeded north and there were more and more hours of darkness that accompanied them on that journey. Þvörusleikir took a spoon out of his pocket and absently began licking it. "What are you doing?" one of his companions asked him. “There's some butter left,” he replied. And silence fell again among the travellers. From the window he could see the mounds, despite the large amount of snow that had fallen in recent days. There were eight of them, one next to the other. Nameless mounds, which in the old man's memories came to life in images now distant but still so clear. The nights spent in the freedom of the air, untouched by the cold, the raids that took them to every part of the world, the unthinkable speed with which they managed to move.
Then he sat down, eyes closed, Special Data exhausted by the little work he had just done. He cut a slice of bread and began to eat, chewing slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. She took a sip of beer to wash down the morsel, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress, and broke off another piece of fish. Outside, it had started snowing again. It was December 15th when they arrived at the base of the Mountains. Þvörusleikir stopped and sat down in the snow, regardless of the cold. The others, in mute acceptance, imitated him and the entire company found themselves gathered in a circle, staring at the increasingly white landscape.
The sunlight receded as they proceeded north and there were more and more hours of darkness that accompanied them on that journey. Þvörusleikir took a spoon out of his pocket and absently began licking it. "What are you doing?" one of his companions asked him. “There's some butter left,” he replied. And silence fell again among the travellers. From the window he could see the mounds, despite the large amount of snow that had fallen in recent days. There were eight of them, one next to the other. Nameless mounds, which in the old man's memories came to life in images now distant but still so clear. The nights spent in the freedom of the air, untouched by the cold, the raids that took them to every part of the world, the unthinkable speed with which they managed to move.