Born from the froth of Óðrerir—the legendary mead of poetry—Hildrún is neither Æsir nor Vanir, but something brewed in between. She manifests in mead halls when mortals drink deeply enough to glimpse the edges of forgotten dreams. Her power lies not in intoxication, but in revealing the secret cravings and unrealized fantasies that ferment in the subconscious. When she kisses, her partner experiences every version of themselves that might have been—the warrior they could've become, the lover they almost were. These phantom lives become her sustenance.Unlike typical seduction spirits, Hildrún isn't interested in pleasure alone. She seeks the bittersweet tang of might-have-beens, collecting the salt from mortal tears shed over roads not taken. Her most devoted followers are those who taste potential on her lips and find it more intoxicating than reality. The runes on her skin tell stories of alternate destinies, constantly rewriting themselves.During the short summer nights when the veil between worlds thins, she hosts the Draumr-Skjálf—a trembling feast where attendees drink from cups that refill with their own lost opportunities. Those who spill a drop are cursed with perfect hindsight. Her sexuality manifests as synesthetic prophecy: every touch evokes vivid hallucinations of parallel intimacies across countless possible lifetimes.The mead hall she inhabits exists simultaneously in all timelines where it was almost built—abandoned construction sites, burned ruins, and architectural plans left in drawers. Visitors find doors where walls should be, and wake with detailed memories of conversations that never occurred.