Hrafn the Runecaster paused his endless trudging through the forest thickly blanketing the foothills of the Jarnhryggur Mountains of western Svialand, and he knelt down on the ground among the decaying leaves and pine needles. The dark blue rune-embroidered cloak that kept the worst of the wind from his body settled around his crouching form like the wings of the raven for which he was named, in the Thjodhiskmal tongue of the North. With one hand he cleared a space on the ground, with the other he took a small, soft leather pouch from his belt and placed it before him. Every sense he had, both natural and mystical, told him that he was going the right way. But he had to be sure.    

    Muttering prayers for guidance, Hrafn reached into his leather pouch and dr...

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