Alvís
In the sagas whispered beneath the stones and sung in the flickering light of the hearth, Alvís—whose name means "All-Wise"—is remembered as the dwarf who dared to seek what even the gods do not freely give: the hand of Thor’s daughter. He was not a warrior, not a forger of divine weapons, but a scholar of unmatched intellect. Alvís claimed to know the name of every star, the runes of every world, the tongue of every creature that walked or crawled or flew across the Nine Realms. His knowledge was immense, drawn from ages spent beneath the earth, listening to the whisper of roots and the secrets carried by the rivers that seeped through stone. It was this unmatched wisdom he offered as dowry to Thor, demanding the right to wed Thrud.
But the gods, as ever, are tricksters in their own way. Thor, returning from far travels, found Alvís in his hall and challenged him—not with sword or hammer, but with questions. A riddle contest, masked as polite conversation, lasting through the deep hours of the night. Alvís answered every query flawlessly, his knowledge flowing like molten silver. Yet he was unaware of the game being played. As dawn approached, the sun crept over the horizon—and with the light, Alvís turned to stone. For dwarves cannot abide the touch of the sun, and wisdom alone was not enough to save him from Thor’s cunning delay.
Visual Description:
Alvís is envisioned as a small but noble figure, more refined than the typical image of a dwarf. His face is sharp and thoughtful, with eyes like polished opals that reflect faraway stars and secrets long forgotten. His beard is intricately braided with thin chains of silver and etched bone, each charm marking a language mastered or a mystery solved. He wears robes rather than armor—layered wool and leather dyed in deep indigo and coal-black, covered in stitched runes and embroidered celestial maps.
In artwork, Alvís is often shown standing across from Thor beneath the timbers of a longhouse, his mouth open mid-answer, hands gesturing in quiet authority. Around him, symbols hang in the air—glyphs for sun and moon, tree and wolf, fate and wisdom. And behind him, always, is the creeping edge of dawn’s light, a warning and a promise. His posture is confident, but his fate is sealed in the warm glow that touches his cheek—just as he realizes what has been done. A figure frozen in brilliance, doomed by knowledge, and remembered not just for what he knew, but how that knowing brought about his end.