Seven days and seven nights. Climbing and hiding and hoping and begging the gods of old and new that the mountain king would not catch wiff or sight of the thief ascending the heights.
The stories had been so enticing, sung around the hearth of the hall, with ale and meat and comfort all about, and the company of friends. It had rung in his ears as he left the hold, as he made the trek to through the low foothills and had kept the worst of the cold at bay as the eaks rose before him.
Now that he was there he barely felt the pain of bruises and cuts, of missng fingernails and the torn lip with the song still clear in his mind. He had seen the light glimmering and known why they all chimed in to sing of the Eye of the Old Father