After several days in the wild, I have finally tracked the mighty ox. He is indeed immense and in greater health than I had originally feared. He led me through the Black Forest and southward toward the grim mountains. Those mountains are burnt and tarnished with the fell rock, helvetesten, which is scattered like vomit outside Jormungard’s lair.

There is a stench in the air there. Death looms on the wind, and suffering is embedded into the very stones themselves. I can hear them – the voices of the dead. They are the souls of whom the raven spoke.

They were not visible to me, yet their presence disoriented me greatly. I nearly lost sight of my quarry: the ox. I have come to name him Tjokaben after his immensely thick and powerful legs. He caught me, preoccupied with this vision of men, when he charged.

I had my wits about me enough to evade his horns, though I suspect that if he truly wished to land a blow, he would have done me in. He was toying with me – scolding me for losing sight of my mission. He is as clever as he is strong.

He led me away, down the mountain and toward the Black Forest. Coy he was – luring me close then trotting away – as if he had a purpose for me and not the other way around. As we approached a clearing in the forest, he stopped and turned to face me.

I uncoiled the small rope I had brought with me and he lowered his head for me to bridle him. I obliged, and he led me to the first of several healthy birch we would fell during the day. We harvested an åttagäng before hauling them back to the homestead. I watered him, fed him, then brought him to the side of the house.

He is wise as well – this I can feel. He puts me at ease in that he seems to know my mission. I will listen to him in the coming days as we return to the forest to collect our materials for the Infirmary.