Lost in his weighty ponderings, Skrymir either forgot or simply did not notice the presence of Isolf for at least a fortnight. In that time, she shoveled away the heaps of ash from the hearth, she discovered the scullery under layers of soot and grease, and she discovered smooth and shining floors beneath years of dirt and rubble. Gradually Isolf spread the sphere of her power throughout the underground halls of Skrymir until order prevailed, pushing back the boundaries of encroaching Chaos, rendering the dusty, cluttered halls of Skrymir pleasant and serene.
When Skrymir returned from his contemplation, he remembered the small female creature Alborg had sent him.
"All your work is splendid and orderly," he greeted her. "But still you are not happy. You are lonely here." With one crabbed finger he lifted a telltale tear from her cheek.
Isolf shook her head. "I was promised, and nothing binds like a promise freely given and a vow freely taken." Skrymir beckoned her to follow him to the brewery, the only room to which she was denied access. He illumined it with a gesture of his hand. Another gesture summoned an elegant cushioned seat for Isolf, drawn from nothing but the dust on the floor and Skrymir's imagination.
"You are lonely." There was no denying the truth to one who knew all things as Skrymir knew, from the thoughts in her head to the doings of her father far away in Holm. Skrymir never asked questions that required an answer. A question was a signal for silence and deep scouring thought.
"So I have decided to create a companion for you and all lonely persons of mortalkind. It has been long since any new creatures were created on the face of the earth. All the greater spirits have been taken for the bears and wolves and horses and a host of other fantastical creatures who would astonish you if you saw them. Fortunately they live far away from here, in a hot and dry place, so you'll never see an elephant or a lion or a gazelle. The limitations of mortal flesh are often a nuisance to you, but what a protection."
As he talked, he searched through the impressive clutter of his chamber, choosing pots and kettles in his careful, bumbling way, scratching runes upon them and the floor and in the air, and mumbling over names of elementals.
"It has been a long time since I brewed anything," he said, pressing his finger upon his forehead thoughtfully. "My supply of honey mead is down to one small cask. The day of the jotun and his wisdom is nearly done, my child."
"Could you not brew more mead and more knowledge?"
"I am too weary and your people too disbelieving."
As he worked over his brew in the kettle, he invoked names and elementals, all without benefit of the protective runes Isolf had seen her father use. Nor did Skrymir defend himself with guardian rings and pentacles scratched about him on the floor or in the air. She saw the faces of demons and elementals swirling in the air about Skrymir's head, and all were orderly and obedient.
The wizards of her own clan summoned fires and thunders and furies that wreaked terrible havoc before a way was found to banish them once again into the ether from whence they had been brought. Magic for mortals was a perilous business; plenty of aspiring wizards had been destroyed by their own spellcasting, carried away by the elementals they had rashly summoned, shapes shifted and souls cast out without knowing how to bring them back. Watching Skrymir, Isolf knew that they were an amateur, arrogant lot, grasping for dazzling truths with their eyes tight shut and their minds clouded with ignorance.
"A spirit guide, companion, and protector," mused Skrymir through a cloud of vapor rising from the kettle. "A boon to all mankind, a comfort to womankind in her lonely and difficult walks, an augment to her powers. A companion in grace and beauty and mystery and curiosity."
He searched about, examining and discarding several skins of animals. A bag spilled out small scraps of fur of all colors. The jotun studied them and sighed, shaking his head and furrowing up his forehead in consternation.
"None of these are big enough. The guardian of women must be somewhat bigger than the palm of my hand. I wish I could have had the supervision of the lion or the tiger. I would not have summoned such ferocious spirits into them. In the old days, we had limitless materials. Now there's scarcely anything left."
"If I had nothing but scraps to make a thing from, I would sew the scraps together to make a larger piece," said Isolf. "Perhaps I am presuming, but it seems a thrifty way to get rid of scraps."
"So be it." With a shrug Skrymir tossed the scraps of fur into the kettle. "Now for a spirit. It isn't easy to take the same piecemeal approach to fitting a spirit into a creation. I have many small spirits, friendly spirits, malicious spirits, playful spirits, fierce little spirits left over from weasels, foxes, martins, ferrets, and other little hunting creatures, affectionate spirits, sleepy spirits-all are very good spirits, for the most part, but nothing large enough for a creature such as I want to make. So the only thing to do is to lump them all together and hope for the best."
The moment Skrymir added the spirits and their Names, the brew in the kettle gained a voice. Or voices-Isolf heard a chorus of squeaking and mewing and yowling and squalling, as well as some fiery hissing and spitting.
"Nothing of this sort has ever been done before," said Skrymir dubiously, venturing to reach into the smoking kettle, resulting in a flurry of spitting and hissing and growling. When he withdrew his great hand, three small, multicolored furry creatures were clinging to it and glaring around with wild beady eyes.
"Claws! I don't remember adding claws! Or teeth!" said Skrymir in surprise as he attempted to dislodge the small growling creatures from his hand and sleeve. The little brutes climbed up to his shoulders with amazing speed and agility, still hissing and sputtering ferociously.
Three more pointed little faces peered out over the edge of the kettle in wild alarm. When Isolf stooped for a closer look, three pink mouths opened in virulent hissings and spittings. Short fuzzy tails like weasels, enormous batlike ears, legs like little sticks, and a wicked pixie-faced head set on a shapeless blob of a body that seemed more bristling fur than actual substance. When she ventured to advance one hand toward them, the three little fiends scuttled mightily and escaped from the kettle. The last view she had of them was three small shadows disappearing into the heaps of impossible clutter filling the room.
Skrymir beckoned for a basket and managed to unsnag the other three beasties from his shoulders and beard, dropping them one by one, sputtering, into the basket.
"I think," he said thoughtfully, "I must have put too much spirit into such little bodies."
"Never mind," said Isolf. "Perhaps the savage little monsters will be a match for the mice and rats. They don't seem very companionable."
Skrymir examined a large rent in his finger and quickly healed it with a bit of dust and spit. "I don't think they turned out very well. Not at all what I'd intended. When I catch those other three, I'll cast out a few of the wild and malicious spirits and see what we're left with."
"What are they called? All creatures must have a name."
"By naming them, we are claiming them," said Skrymir with a ponderous shake of his head. "We give them a certain power over us with a Name. When you say it, they will come, and they may come whether you want them or not. No, we won't name this creature just yet."
Isolf took the basket and the creatures to the scullery. Almost immediately the little beasts pushed off the lid when she wasn't looking and scuttled across the floor in three different directions. No amount of hunting and chasing recaptured them. Having better things to do, Isolf returned to her work. As she sat plucking a young goose, she saw shadows from the corners of her eyes, slinking around the edges and dark corners of the room. Indeed, the jotun had created company for her but not the sort of company she cared for. When her back was turned, the three creatures hurled themselves upon the goose and dragged it away, off the table and toward the den they had chosen in a cleft in the wall. Isolf saved the goose but not without a great deal of high-pitched growling from the little brutes. From then on she took care to leave no meat lying about unattended; even so, she frequently saw the creatures sniffing around for it on the table top or around the bucket of leavings for the midden heap.