I am located in a town, a city, and throughout the land, but I am not in a lake, sea, river, or ocean. People visit me for visiting others.

On a remote isle, where stone giants stand, silent sentinels carved by ancient hands. Known for mysteries and endless blue sky, What am I, this island where secrets lie?

I might be something you hike to see, I’m made of liquid, height and breeze. First part might make you quenched or thirsty, last part might make you spooked or dirty.

I tell the same tale in borrowed clothes and local tunes, My vowels nod to towns, my phrases carry rooms. Not a new tongue, yet I point to home on a map What am I, the familiar voice with a different wrap?

Named after a mountain, fictive and grand, in a tongue few speak or understand. They sing of Norse gods, warriors, and flame, Roaring hard tunes that earned them their name.