Bruni Dream on the Road to Yrda:

You find yourself in a training room. Fighting dummies of various sizes—small, medium, and large—dot the room. The walls are logs—like a Northron longhouse—and are lined with iron racks containing weapons of nearly every size and make. The room is lit by an ambient white glow. You turn around, taking in the entire room, and now see, entering the room through a great doorway, a man, striding towards you, smiling.
He is a burly Northron man with short cut brown hair, a bushy brown beard, and steely grey eyes. He wears a breastplate etched with the symbol of Bruni. His shoulders are covered with a large bearskin. A shining longsword hangs off of his belt through a ring—not a sheath. Following him into the room are two large direwolves. Their grey eyes scan the room for threats as their master strides in. Their eyes settle on you and stare—not with malice or wariness, but with attention.
“Rilka Lazarsdottir, the child of three houses, the battle-tested.”
He reaches out his arm and the two of you shake forearms in the Northron fashion.
He draws his longsword. It shines with a bright, almost bright light. “Spar with me.”
The two of you spar—and it is readily apparent that you are outmatched. He never harms you, but you stop each time he gets a good “cut” on you. He’s smiling the whole time. He finally nods at you and lowers the weapon.
“You do well stepping forward at all. Your courage burns bright. I salute you.”
He motions to a bench at the side of the longhouse. “Sit,” he says, beckoning to you as he does the same.
“Dark times approach on the horizon. You will be called. Your courage tested. Watch for signs. Watch for portents. The Lords of the Halls are stirring because a threat even greater than the Grundr awakes. Be vigilant. Be ready. Be brave.”
“There will be triumphs along the way and there will be pain. Much will be gained—and more will be lost. But, in the end, all you know will be in the balance. Steel your heart and sharpen your blade, Rilka. For you will be going to war.”
He pats your knee companionably and rises, leaving the hall and taking his wolves with him.
You wake, and in your morning ablutions, catch your reflection. A narrow streak of grey now mars your usually brown mop of hair.