The Role of the Norns
Beneath the sprawling branches of Yggdrasil, where its roots drink deeply from the waters of fate, dwell the Norns—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld. These three sisters are the weavers of destiny, shaping the lives of gods and men alike with threads spun from time itself. Their hands guide the loom of existence, intertwining past, present, and future in a tapestry both beautiful and terrifying.
The Norns reside by the Well of Urd, a sacred spring that bubbles with ancient wisdom. Every day, they draw water from the well and mix it with clay to tend to the roots of Yggdrasil, ensuring that the World Tree remains strong. Without their care, the tree—and with it, the Nine Realms—would wither and fall into ruin.
The first Norn is Urd, whose name means "What Has Been." She embodies the past, her gaze fixed on the foundations of all that is and was. Verdandi, "What Is Becoming," watches over the present, her hands ever in motion as she weaves the fleeting moments of now. Skuld, "What Shall Be," holds the future, her eyes distant and her voice a whisper of possibilities yet to come.
Their work is unyielding, their influence inescapable. The gods themselves seek their counsel, though even Odin, the All-Father, cannot alter the threads they spin. He once sacrificed an eye for a drink from the Well of Urd, hoping to glimpse the workings of fate, but even he was left humbled by their knowledge.
The Norns’ threads are not bound by morality or justice; they weave as the pattern demands. To one, they grant glory; to another, despair. Heroes rise and fall, gods triumph and perish, all according to the design held in their hands.
Their presence is felt in every corner of the Nine Realms. When a child is born, the Norns carve their fate into the wood of Yggdrasil, their runes marking the life that will unfold. When a warrior stands on the battlefield, the Norns decide whether they will rise again or fall to the ground.
Yet, their work is not without mystery. Some say that the Norns themselves are bound to a greater force, one that even they cannot name. Others whisper that their weaving is imperfect, that the threads occasionally fray or tangle, leaving gaps where chaos seeps through.
The Norns remind the gods—and all who hear their tale—that existence is fleeting and fragile, a balance of forces too vast to comprehend. They are not to be feared, nor loved, but simply acknowledged as the quiet architects of all that is, was, and will be.
Even now, when the wind rustles the leaves of Yggdrasil, it is said to carry the murmurs of the Norns at work. Their loom turns endlessly, and their whispers echo through the fabric of existence, weaving the stories of gods, men, and the worlds they inhabit.