"Keep calm and carry on," were words I repeated every few minutes while I walked along the left side of the Gjöll River. At least I assumed it was THE famous river of death, because the alternatives—like an unholy river formed from the drool of a certain demon wolf—were too worrisome to contemplate.
The path I trekked on was in the same direction Liara's spell saber had come from when it floated down the ghostly river, which I hoped was in the opposite direction of Gjallarbrú—the bridge that spans the Gjöll River which allows those who weren't given snazzy Viking funerals to reach the Land of the Dead—and its female guardian, Móðguðr, who the seers claimed would hold a grudge against any living person seeking to enter Helheim before dying.
"It would be just my luck if I ran into her though," I whispered.
