The crone frowned, almost sneering. Gavriil had said something to upset her, but he could not tell what it was. Her face remained very plain at most when her expression changed. Her accent as she spoke, was no longer the slight Swedish accent she had, but now it’s a stronger Russian accent, “It is not my place to say whom your parents are. The ravens will be arriving soon with that, and where you are to go from here. With my payment, I'm to field only a few other questions before kicking you out. Preferably, before they arrive.

Her eyeless sockets go wide, a gasping suction heard from them before her face closes up again. She began to speak, in purely Old Norse. Unintelligible to most who listened, save those who are familiar with the roots of the Nordic tongue.

Gavriil suddenly felt a rush of sense. There was a strange feeling of a mix of combat and every single sound off quiet nature overlaid in his head. The smell of blood and sweat filled his nostrils, as did the smell of ripe fruit and flowers, and of a slow flowing river. It was loud, imposing, almost blocking out his other senses, until it subsided.

The feeling was still, muted, weak. It came flowing from each of the others present, save the crone. She didn’t exude any new sensation to Gavriil. There must have been some tell in his face as it hit, as she smiled, and spoke more in Old Norse. But this time, this time he understood her, “Your worm tongue can move as it ought,” and she was right. If Gavriil were to try to speak in Old Norse, he would be able to. Somewhere inside, he realized that this wasn’t just Old Norse. Any language he listened to just a few sentences of, he’d be able to understand and speak and remember.

But it wasn’t the only thing he noticed had changed. Looking at his rifle, he saw a small smouldering of ethereal vapour, and knew, he was seeing a soul, a ghost, the one that had been broken to make this weapon. He could hear it, screaming. Screaming, relentlessly. The suffering was palpable, it was torn and broken.

The crone continued, “You can hear him now, too, right? He was once a great sniper, and now he is a gun in your hands. Does it feel good to hear the screaming? If it ever gets too much, you can suppress this,” she paused, “6th sense of yours. The bones taken from Helheim, the frost from Niflheim, it’s as true a weapon of death as any.”

“Close your eyes,” she spoke, her words filled with power, and Gavriil did, “Feel. What else can you do? I’d hate to have to explain it all from now on.” The quiet in his head let his fate flow to his mind. He knew his new skills.

After some time, he finally opened his eyes again, after the crone had already fielded questions from at least one more of his kin.