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Though her legs tread miles and her heart beat loudly in her chest, it was only the thumping of her own organ did she hear. Skidding to a stop finally, she lifts her head to the bright new morning skies, taking in a deep breath. The crisp air in a chill in her throat, her lungs. She smells nothing.

As her red-headed freckles cheeks feel the warmth of the sun, emerald eyes open once more. These fields were still and undisturbed, savor her own self, it seemed. In the distance are the Summit mountains. They tower, cutting the skies, casting shadow where the sun fought to pierce through. It is the place where her mortal father had his last battle. There his body became entombed in ice down a great crevice. The place which Ragnar Stormborn was lifted into Valhalla.

Journey thinks to journey there, but knows better to not. There, swirling within the spires and wrapping the mountains in haze, was the purple snow and smog which her elder sister spoke of. Quite unnatural indeed, she knew the work of magic when it presented itself to her. Weary of the safety of her new mortal body, Journey turns and moves southwest and away.