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Backstory

        Verthandi stopped spinning yarn and looked at the approaching warrior. He was in his armor, and had his equipment ready for an expedition.

        “No words could express my gratitude to you, daughter of Mimir.” The warrior inspected the yarn closely. He even started to pull and strain at them.

        “Odin, what are you expecting? What do you think they are made of? Gold? Or silver?” Just then, the string snapped.

        “Sorry, I was just — ”

        “Remember not to treat the spun yarn in such manner ever again, silly.”

        The warrior was about to apologize further, but then he saw Verthandi’s bewildering grin, and so he asked solemnly, “Is this Mimir’s guidance?”

        “No, this is your fate,” Verthandi said lightly.

        The warrior clenched the snapped strand in his hand: “Still, strands are woven by men.”

        “But our hands are merely guided by the strand itself. As I pull it, it pulls back,” Verthandi said as she weaved, “My father used to say, everything starts from strands that are pulled by the hands of men, and they become fate and change...”

        The soldier, however, emphasized resolutely: “We will open up our paths.”

        “You know, among the three of us, I am the only prophet.” Verthandi grinned from ear to ear, “You can’t escape from it.”

        As one of Mimir’s daughters, Verthandi inherited his affability. She never spared any effort helping others, yet people always wanted to change everything; they released the strands in their grasp, and tried to break the wall in their way, believing that they could change their sealed fate. Verthandi once asked her father, why people always regarded themselves omnipotent. “The blunt scythe must tell itself that it is always sharp, so it can cut its way out.” Verthandi was energetic; she had always been wandering across the realm of men. Under the accompany of swallows formed by elements of Earth, she surveyed the fate of the world. Verthandi told people to pick up the needles and strands they had abandoned, not to be deceived by what they see, and to distinguish the fate that the strands would guide them to.

        “The feet in the present set out on their journey...” With her sharp sewing needle, Verthandi had always been mending the world’s fate.

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