Máni's course, plagued by Hati, streaks across the starry, night sky.
His glow touches the houses, Ymir's bones, and kisses burial mounds and runestones.
Legends tell that the dead have more power when Sól rests her glowing, beautiful head.
As such, a traveller rists and weaves rúnar, to hear the doom of his beloved son.
Drawn from the chilling land of death, an ancient seer awakens unwillingly.
"Answer me, völr, for you know all things then, now, and to come!" the man demands.
The wise woman groans, her death rattle audible with every labored breath.
"Your son will die, and Urđr will clasp him in her pale, Jötunn arms."
With a tired groan, she began to descend, but the Málrúnar beckoned her to stay.
"Völr, tell me more! Who will kill my dear son, most beloved among all creation?"
Sighing, the pale shade glared at the tall man, whose long beard fell to his chest.
"His dear brother, ever full of emotion, will be tricked into launching the most dire arrow."
Again descending, the ancient crone was stopped another time, her patience at its end.
"Who will avenge this crime, for all of creation loves this child?"
Looking up toward Máni, the ghostly völr began to form a conclusion in her mind.
"An Álfr maid will bear a heroic child, who will grow in a day to slay the killer."
Nodding, the man willed the woman to stay one last time, the rúnar strained.
"Who are the maidens who weep at will, and cast their neck-veils to the sky?"
Gasping in her rasping, death-filled voice, the ghostly seeress laughed bitterly.
"As I thought, you are not a mere mortal, but actually Óđinn, lord of men!"
Nodding, the Ásaföđr began to carve the Málrúnar, but the völr shook her head.
"Farewell old fool, you should be happy now, for the future is truly grim."
Descending into the icy earth, the ghostly woman returned to the land of the dead.
Tormented with knowledge, Óđinn departed to Mímisbrunar, to make a sacrifice for more.