Rustling swaths of heather cover the field of Fólkvangr in an unusually vivid and dark, purplish red tone. From high in the air, the field appears like a moving stream of blood, unbroken save for the magnificent hall of the Lady Freyja set at the eastern edge overlooking everything. The stones of her hall, Sessrúmnir are bleached, white bones against the dying sun. Soon, mist will gather across the field and from it will emerge the ghosts.
As the sun sinks deeper and the mist rises, shadows move toward the field. The ghosts moan, and shamble out of the twilight fog, until a marvelous turn happens as their dark shapes meet the red toned heather of Fólkvangr. Out of the murky darkness, the shadows take shape into human forms. They give a wail, at the first instant each man and woman appears covered in wounds with blood trailing in rivulets or gushing brightly onto the ground. In answer to the keening cries, the heather whispers back hoarsely, a howling wind stirring the leaves and flowers into a frenzy. Like a cauldron of brew roiling, the heather swirls as the blood flows onto it. Its color deepens as the field drinks of the dead.
Suddenly, a golden light bursts from the east. What, come the dawn already? Yet, the sun is still burning its last rays in the west. No, mere seconds after the bodies are born from the fog, the doors of Sessrúmnir are thrown wide. The sun-warm light from inside bathes the field of Fólkvangr and surrounds each battered man and woman in a deep glow. Wounds close and blood disappears on skin now whole and as each does a cry of joy escapes their lips. Born again, they forget the pain of their arrival.
Two stately Valkyries emerge from the hall and raise horns to their lips, blasting a welcome across the field.
“Come, feast noble warriors!” sounds Freyja’s voice from within the hall.