ALT “Say hello to my newest creation.” Eftirvit squints at the pixels. “Your newest creation is a digitized copy of yourself?” The Hroptatyr in the computer smiles, his long locks of purple hair flowing in the virtual wind. “You’re finally here, Eftirvit,” he says. “It isn’t like you to show up late.” The real Hroptatyr hums. “Something like that.” He turns the screen toward himself again but digital Hroptatyr doesn’t react to him like he did to Eftirvit. “I’ve manufactured him in a video game of sorts, so all you need to do is launch the game to talk to him.” Eftirvit’s eyebrows furrow. “Why would I need to talk to him? You’re here.”