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Gjöll
3rd of February 2018
20:00 PM

Nearly three days had passed since the train had ground to a halt at the intermediate stop of Gjöll, yet Galateya remained ensnared in a web of surreal disbelief. How had a mundane journey from Yerushalayim spiraled into this bewildering odyssey, leaving her stranded in a realm suspended between fantasy and reality, her sole companion a living Wendigo? She sat by the window, her gaze fixed on the mist-shrouded landscape outside, lost in a labyrinth of perplexing thoughts and unanswered questions.

With a distracted air, Galateya tucked her phone into her sling bag, her fingers moving automatically as she hastily recorded a few fleeting thoughts. Outside the train window, the world unfolded in a surreal tableau, a curious blend of the ordinary and the fantastical. The desolate station lay cloaked in an eerie silence, the mist swirling around its abandoned platforms like tendrils of forgotten memory.

The Dvergr, renowned for their compact yet powerful frames and muscular physiques, presented a remarkable spectacle amidst the bleak and desolate substation, their presence commanding attention and admiration. Despite their diminutive stature, their presence commanded attention, their muscles rippling beneath layers of heavy leather and rugged attire. Every inch of their attire seemed tailored for the rigors of labor, each garment bearing the marks of countless hours spent toiling in the depths of the earth. Their weather-beaten faces told stories of hardship and perseverance, adorned with braided beards that hung like banners of resilience. Deep-set eyes, sharp and watchful, scanned their surroundings with a mixture of vigilance and wariness, while furrowed brows betrayed the weight of their responsibilities. Each line etched into their weathered visages spoke of a lifetime of dedication to their craft, a testament to their unwavering commitment to their laborious tasks. As they moved about the station with practiced grace, their movements were a symphony of efficiency and expertise. Every swing of their hammers, every deft maneuver of their hands, was executed with a precision born of years of experience. It was as though they were choreographing a dance of creation, each step bringing them closer to their goal of restoring the broken train to its former glory. Galateya watched in awe as the group of dwarves worked their magic, their tireless efforts a testament to their indomitable spirit.

Meanwhile, her cloaked companion stood sentinel outside the train, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the platform as he leaned nonchalantly against the door. Beneath the folds of his cloak, his keen gaze swept over the scene before him, every movement calculated and deliberate. Despite his outward appearance of calm, Galateya sensed a tension simmering beneath the surface, a silent vigilance that belied his stoic demeanor.

The Wendigo's antlered silhouette was a stark contrast against the ethereal glow of the station's lights. His eyes, a mesmerizing blend of amber and green, scanned the environment with an almost predatory focus. Each subtle twitch of his muscles and the faint rustle of his cloak conveyed a readiness to spring into action at a moment's notice. This was not mere nonchalance; it was the poised composure of a seasoned predator.

As the Dvergr toiled tirelessly to repair and improve the train, their gruff voices mingling with the clang of metal and the hum of arcane machinery, Galateya could not shake the feeling of unease that hung heavy in the air. The diminutive craftsmen, stout and burly with beards woven into intricate braids, moved with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Faces etched with lines of age and worry, they worked with quick, frenetic movements, scrambling to complete their task. Their eyes, deep-set and glinting like polished onyx, flicked nervously between the train and the Wendigo, as if the presence of the antlered beast was both a reassurance and a threat. Their hands, calloused and strong, moved with practiced precision, each strike of the hammer and twist of the wrench a testament to their centuries-old expertise.

Galateya's senses were on high alert, every sound amplified in the unnatural stillness of the station. The rhythmic pounding of hammers, the sizzling of welding torches, and the muttered incantations of the Dvergr combined to create an eerie symphony of industrial and magical sounds. Despite their gruff exterior, these humanoid dwarves seemed to operate under a palpable layer of anxiety, their glances towards the Wendigo betraying a deep-seated wariness.

She felt a chill creeping down her spine, a sensation that was only heightened by the otherworldly environment and the surreal nature of her situation. Galateya was caught between worlds, trapped in a liminal space where myths breathed life and the line between reality and fantasy blurred into oblivion. The air was thick with the scent of metal and ozone, mingling with the musty aroma of ancient earth, creating a heady mix that made her head spin.

One of the Dvergr, whom Galateya recognized as the leader by the subtle distinctions in his attire, cast a wary glance in her direction from across the platform. His eyes, a piercing shade of steel grey, bore into hers with a mixture of fear and apprehension, a silent warning that sent a chill down her spine. His weathered face, framed by a tangled beard and crowned with a leather cap adorned with runes, seemed to carry the weight of countless secrets. Though she could not discern the exact cause of their anxiety, she sensed that something ominous lurked just beyond the edge of her understanding, a shadow of dread she could not quite grasp.

Driven by a sense of curiosity and a burning desire to unravel the mysteries that surrounded her, Galateya rose from her seat and made her way to the cabin door. Her sling bag, heavy with books and notes, hung over her shoulder, its familiar weight a small comfort in this alien world. With each step, she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her, her mind racing with questions and doubts. The rhythmic clinking and clanking of the Dvergr's tools created a dissonant symphony that only heightened her unease.

Joining the Wendigo at the door, she cast a wary glance at the bustling platform beyond. The dim light of the intermediate stop cast long shadows across the scene, adding to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. The Dvergr, stout and muscular with gnarled hands and faces etched with the grime of their labor, moved with a purpose that seemed almost frantic. Despite their rugged appearance, their nervous glances toward the Wendigo betrayed a deep-rooted fear.

As the Dvergr hurriedly completed the maintenance tasks, the Wendigo, his antlered head tilting to the side, contemplated their imminent departure. "The Dvergr will finish the maintenance soon; we will continue our journey in less than an hour towards our main stop ahead: Midgard," he mused, his voice carrying a weight of anticipation. Casting a glance at Galateya, he added, "I will gather some extra supplies, especially food, from the available stalls at the stop. Have you charged that phone of yours already at the station?"

Galateya responded with a nonchalant shrug, her gaze flickering uncertainly towards the skittish Dvergr. Their unease around the Wendigo was palpable, a phenomenon she had observed not only today but also during their previous encounters. "Yeah," she replied, her tone tinged with mild disappointment. "I am still hungry though. I did not expect the food here to be so unappetizing for my human tongue. The roasted meat thing you got from that strange vending machine-like contraption fills me up, but it tastes weird. And that red juice you gave me, it tastes like iron."

Beneath the shroud of his hood, the Wendigo released a soft, almost melancholic sigh, his countenance veiled in shadow. "Ah, the succulence of Sæhrīmnīr's flesh, my little lamb," he murmured, his voice a melodic whisper. "It nourishes the mortal frame like no other, a feast fit for a weary soul such as yours." With a patient grace, he continued, "Forgive me for the offering of Kvasir's Mead; it is but a meager sustenance found at this desolate waypoint. But fret not, for our journey to Midgard promises adventure beyond the confines of this mundane train. We shall roam the earth, exploring its vast expanse. We will seek sustenance to appease even the most discerning palate, instead of waiting inside the express for the duration of the train's stop, which lasts around five to seven days. Only then, the train will magically decide its next route before departing to the next stop."

His gaze bore into hers, mysterious and penetrating, a hint of amusement dancing in its depths. Meanwhile, the maintenance work continued unabated, the Dvergr darting to and fro amidst a flurry of sparkling tools. The air hung heavy with the scent of oil and metal, a stark contrast to the earthy musk of the Wendigo and the faint aroma of the Mead that lingered in the air.

Galateya's delicate sigh seemed to echo through the air, carrying with it a weight of longing and discontent. Her mind wandered, like a lone ship adrift on a vast sea, towards the distant shores where the promise of more tantalizing sustenance beckoned. The memory of the roasted meat lingered in her thoughts, its flavor a curious blend of unfamiliar spices that had made her delicate features contort involuntarily in a grimace of displeasure. The origins of that peculiar dish remained veiled in mystery, adding to the enigma of her existence in this strange realm. Every bite seemed to taunt her with its riddle, leaving her palate yearning for something more familiar, more comforting.

And then there was the crimson juice, a stark reminder of Galateya's displacement amidst the unfamiliar. Its metallic tang clung stubbornly to her tongue, staining her senses with a reminder of the blood that coursed through her veins, marking her as both an outsider and an anomaly in this world of mortals. Each drop seemed to whisper of her otherness, of the secrets that lay hidden within her being, casting a shadow over her every step as she navigated the intricacies of this alien land.

The Wendigo’s reassurance of Midgard stirred a glimmer of hope within Galateya, a fragile light flickering in the darkness of her uncertainty. She envisioned verdant landscapes, a vivid tapestry of greens and florals, where the air was alive with the scents of blooming wildflowers and the earthy aroma of fertile soil. These fragrant breezes, she imagined, would sweep away the sterile, metallic ambiance of the train and station, replacing it with the invigorating breath of the natural world.

The prospect of embarking on a journey through these lush lands filled her with a burgeoning sense of anticipation. She longed to feel the rich, loamy earth beneath her feet, to hear the rustling leaves whispering ancient secrets, and to see the vibrant hues of an untainted sky. Reconnecting with nature promised a balm for her weary spirit, a return to a world where life thrived in harmonious abundance.

Moreover, the thought of savoring the flavors of Midgardian cuisine ignited her senses. Galateya imagined the crispness of freshly harvested vegetables, the sweet juiciness of ripe fruits, and the hearty warmth of meals cooked over open flames. Each imagined bite was a promise of nourishment and delight, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile rations she had endured.

Galateya's furrowed brow deepened as she cast a discerning glance over the huddle of Dvergr, their movements tinged with an edge of apprehension that even her typically guileless mind couldn't miss. She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, a subconscious attempt to ward off the unease creeping in. Before her thoughts could spiral further into the abyss of worry, the Wendigo interrupted her reverie, his voice slicing through the tense atmosphere like a dagger of old yore.

"I will venture to the station's stalls to secure additional supplies," he announced, his gaze meeting Galateya's with a mismatched pair of eyes, one amber, the other a vibrant green. "We will ensure we are fully provisioned for our journey ahead."

"Wait," Galateya interjected before he could depart, her curiosity piqued. "I cannot help but wonder, I have not seen you partake of any sustenance. Are you not hungry?"

Under the shroud of his cloak's hood, the Wendigo's countenance remained inscrutable, though a subtle purr of amusement escaped his lips. "Ah, yes," he mused, his voice a low rumble, "I did partake in the consumption of Sæhrīmnīr's flesh, much like yourself. Yet, it merely whetted my appetite, failing to quell the primal hunger that drives me to pursue live prey. There is an ineffable satisfaction in the chase, would not you agree?" His eyes gleamed with a primal intensity as he spoke, his words laden with the weight of ancient instincts.

Galateya's almond-shaped eyes bore a thoughtful gleam, a subtle curve gracing her lips, a facade concealing the apprehension gnawing at her core upon hearing his proclamation. "Indeed," she murmured, her voice a soft melody in the desolate expanse that enveloped them, save for the diligent Dvergr repairmen. Her gaze wandered over the barren landscape, lingering momentarily on the industrious beings toiling on the train platform before settling back on the imposing figure of the Wendigo. "It seems the pursuit of living prey resonates more deeply with your essence," she remarked, her words weighted with understanding and a hint of resignation. With a graceful gesture, she conceded, "I shall tarry here then, awaiting your triumphant return."

Concealed within the depths of his voluminous cloak, the enigmatic figure known as Wendigo cast a scrutinous glance towards Galateya, a solitary eyebrow raised in contemplation. His presence exuded an aura of intrigue, shrouded in mystery and veiled beneath the shadows of his hood. With a voice that resonated like distant thunder, he addressed her inquiry, each word dripping with an amalgamation of amusement and curiosity.

"Why this sudden inquisition, mortal?" he questioned, his tone a womb of enigma. "Does the wellspring of your curiosity compel you to feed me with questions? You have but recently become acquainted with my presence, yet already you seek to attend to my needs. How fascinating." His words hung in the air, pregnant with implications that danced just beyond reach.

As he pivoted gracefully to procure additional provisions before their departure, Galateya's gaze remained ensnared by the mesmerizing fluidity of his movements. Despite the concealment of his cloak, she could not help but notice the sinuous contours of his form, a testament to the lean strength that lurked beneath. His towering stature, a stark deviation from the average human, seemed to stretch towards the very heavens, his antlers nearly brushing against the substation's ceiling. With each deliberate step, he faded into the murky depths of the platform, his silhouette swallowed by shadows and the dimly illuminated expanse, leaving behind an aura of enigma and ambiguity that lingered in the air like an elusive whisper of mystery.

Upon Galateya's brow, a furrow etched itself, a testament to the weight of uncertainty that lay heavy upon her mind. Her thoughts, a tempest of anticipation and apprehension, swirled like leaves caught in a storm, each one a whisper of the mysteries awaiting her ahead. The journey unfurling before them was not merely a passage from one point to another; it was a voyage into the heart of the unknown, where peril and possibility danced in a delicate balance.

With a resolve born of both curiosity and determination, Galateya braced herself for the trials that loomed ahead, knowing that each step taken would unravel new enigmas while veiling others in deeper shadow. In her quest to find her way back home, she began to embrace the uncertainty piece by piece, for within it lay the very essence of survival.

2627 words

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