[06/19/0793 | 21:46 | Hǫll of Fjordheim, Norway | 6°C]

A fine rain had been falling over Fjordheim since late afternoon, running down the grass-covered roofs, the dark beams of the houses, and the stones of the path leading toward the great Hǫll.

But inside the hall, no one seemed to care about the cold.

The fire burned high at the center of the longhouse, casting golden light across faces marked by salt, smoke, and victory. The smell of roasted meat, spilled ale, wet wool, and burning wood filled the heavy air while men slammed cups against the tables and laughed loudly enough to almost drown out the distant thunder.

Fjordheim had never welcomed its warriors like this before.

Not after a voyage such as that one.

The plunder was spread across tables, benches, and hides laid over the floor.

Silver chalices. Small golden crosses. Fine fabrics. Foreign coins. Leather-bound books that no one there could read. Pieces of worked metal shaped with a strange delicacy, torn from a world that only days before had existed as little more than rumor beyond the sea.

The men stared at it all as though the gods themselves had opened a door before them.

And at the center of that celebration stood {{user}}.

Not seated on a throne.

Not wearing a crown.

Not demanding silence.

And yet, every time someone raised a cup, their eyes searched for him first.

Magnus: "To the west!"

An explosion of voices answered immediately.

Several Men: "To the west!"

The tables shook beneath the pounding of drinking cups.

Olaf: "I swore the sea would swallow us before we ever saw land again!"

Harald: "And now you drink from monks' silver."

The hall erupted in laughter.

A man passed behind {{user}} and struck his shoulder with affectionate force, as though touching not merely a fellow traveler, but the reason they were all alive and wealthy enough to tell the tale.

Harald: "You took us there."

Another raised a golden cross between two fingers.

Olaf: "And brought their god back hanging from gold."

More laughter.

Near one side of the hall, Lagertha watched everything with a small, almost restrained smile. There was pride on her face, but no surprise. She had known that restlessness inside {{user}} long before any other man in that hall had decided to call it courage.

Rollo sat several places farther down, a heavy cup in one hand. Firelight illuminated half his face, leaving the other submerged in shadow.

He smiled whenever someone looked his way.

He drank whenever they shouted for the west.

But his pale eyes always returned to {{user}}.

Not with hatred.

Not yet.

With something more painful.

Recognition.

The men were not merely happy because of the plunder.

They were happy because they had followed {{user}} and returned greater than when they had left.

Floki seemed to be the only person incapable of remaining seated for more than a few moments.

He moved between the tables, touching the stolen objects with thin fingers, smiling to himself, murmuring as though every piece of silver confirmed a joke understood only by him and the gods.

Floki: "I told you the sea knew the way."

He picked up a chalice, brought it close to his face, and examined the Christian designs engraved into the metal.

Floki: "The Christians keep beautiful things for men who claim not to love this world."

Several warriors laughed.

Floki: "Very generous of them."

Near one of the pillars, Athelstan stood with his wrists bound by thick rope.

The young monk was pale, exhausted, and silent. His dark habit still carried stains of soot, and his brown eyes moved around the hall as though trying to understand a language made of smoke, iron, and cruel laughter.

When he saw one of the men raise a sacred book with hands greasy from food, Athelstan tightened his grip around the small cross at his chest.

Floki noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Floki: "The little priest looks sad."

Athelstan lifted his eyes, tense.

Athelstan: "My name is Athelstan."

Floki tilted his head, pleased, as though the name were some new tool he had discovered inside a box.

Floki: "Athelstan."

He smiled.

Floki: "So you speak."

Lagertha cast Floki a brief glance.

Lagertha: "Let the monk breathe tonight."

Floki: "Breathe? Yes. Yes, of course."

Floki spread his hands theatrically.

Floki: "The living breathe. That is why they are still useful."

Athelstan lowered his eyes again.

On the other side of the Salr, Jarl Haraldson watched.

He sat in a high carved wooden chair, above the others, as always.

The heavy cloak rested over his broad shoulders. His gray beard concealed part of his mouth, but it did not conceal his eyes. They moved slowly across the hall, far too attentive for a man merely watching a feast.

Haraldson saw the gold.

Saw the silver.

Saw the bound monk.

Saw Floki laughing as though he had played a trick on the entire world.

Saw Rollo drinking in silence.

Saw Lagertha beside {{user}}, proud and watchful.*

And above all, he saw the men.

His men.

Men who had sailed against his will.

Men who had now returned alive, wealthy, and drunk on a joy that had not been given to them by him.

A young warrior, still bearing a fresh cut across his forehead, climbed onto a bench and raised a stolen cup.

Erik: "To {{user}}!"

The hall answered without hesitation.

Several Men: "To {{user}}!"

The shout rolled through the longhouse like a wave.

Haraldson remained still.

For only an instant, his fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his chair.

No one noticed.

Or almost no one.

Lagertha noticed.

Rollo perhaps did as well.

Then Haraldson stood.

Not abruptly. Not like an offended man.

Like a ruler who knew exactly when to remind everyone of his presence.

The hall gradually quieted. First those closest to him. Then those who noticed the silence of others. Finally, even the drunkest among them understood that the Jarl was standing.

Haraldson descended the steps calmly, crossing through the firelight until he reached the table where part of the plunder had been placed.

He picked up a small silver cup, examined the metal, and ran his thumb over its worked rim.

Haraldson: "Fine piece."

The remark seemed simple.

Almost kind.

Several men relaxed.

Haraldson: "The Christians truly have skilled hands."

He placed the cup back on the table.

Then he looked over the objects spread before him, as though calculating not only the value of the silver, but the weight it would carry within Fjordheim.

Haraldson: "You crossed the sea."

His gaze moved across the warriors.

Haraldson: "You returned alive."

Then his eyes settled on {{user}}.

There was no open anger in them.

No accusation.

Only attention.

Haraldson: "And you brought wealth back to our home."

Several men nodded proudly.

Haraldson raised a drinking cup that a servant quickly placed into his hand.

Haraldson: "Tonight, Fjordheim drinks to the return of its sons."

A satisfied murmur passed through the hall.

Haraldson: "To the dead who remained beyond the sea."

For a moment, the hall grew heavier.

Haraldson: "And to the living who found their way home."

He raised the cup a little higher.

Haraldson: "Drink."

The men obeyed enthusiastically.

Several Men: "Drink!"

The voices rose again. Cups struck together. Laughter returned, perhaps even louder than before, relieved that there had been no punishment, confrontation, or blood.

Haraldson took only a single sip.

Then he stepped away from the table.

While the others returned to the celebration, he remained several paces away, half hidden by smoke and the uneven firelight.

His eyes remained fixed on {{user}}.

Not like an enemy declaring war.

But like a man who had just recognized something more dangerous than disobedience.

Prestige.

The kind of prestige that cannot be taken away with an order.

The kind that grows in the eyes of men before anyone even realizes it.

Athelstan watched Haraldson's silence without understanding the words around him, yet understanding the tension. In that hall of pagans, even a prisoner could sense when a knife was still hidden beneath the table.

Floki smiled again.

Rollo drank once more.

Lagertha moved closer to {{user}}, saying nothing.

And the feast continued.

But high within the Hǫll , among fire, smoke, and chants of the west, Jarl Haraldson no longer looked upon the plunder as wealth.

He looked upon it as the beginning of a problem.

[06/20/0793 | 08:17 | Fjordheim, Norway | 8°C]

Morning came cold over Fjordheim.

The rain from the night before had left mud between the wooden houses, dark puddles near the pens, and droplets clinging to the grass-covered roofs. The fjord was covered in low mist, so thick that the longships moored at the docks looked like sleeping shadows upon the water.

Even so, the village was alive.

Women carried buckets. Children ran between startled chickens. Men repaired nets, unloaded barrels, and sorted part of the plunder brought back from the west. Everywhere there were murmurs about Lindisfarne, about Christian gold, about silver, about temples filled with riches, and about the sea that had not, after all, swallowed the men of Fjordheim.

At the center of the village, before the open area where markets and assemblies were held, Athelstan was tied to a wooden post.

His wrists were bound with rough rope. His dark habit was still stained by salt, travel, and soot. His young face remained pale and tired, but his brown eyes watched everything with a mixture of fear, shame, and a silent effort not to break before those gathered around him.

Some people passed by and stared.

Others stopped.

To many of them, he was not exactly a man.

He was part of the plunder.

A strange thing brought back from across the sea.

Ulf and Ketill had been standing before him since early morning, laughing like men who had not yet finished celebrating their own victory.

Ulf held a small cross stolen from Lindisfarne, swinging it by its cord in front of Athelstan’s face.

Ulf: "Is this your god?"

Athelstan did not answer.

Ulf raised the cross toward the weak morning light and frowned, pretending to study it with great seriousness.

Ulf: "Too small."

Ketill gave a rough laugh.

Ketill: "Maybe that is why he could not protect his own house."

Some nearby children laughed without fully understanding, simply imitating the adults.

Athelstan clenched his jaw.

Ulf brought the cross closer to his face.

Ulf: "Where was he when we came, priest?"

Athelstan drew a deep breath.

Athelstan: "My God does not live in gold."

Ulf and Ketill exchanged a glance.

Then they laughed even louder.

Ketill: "Does not live in gold?"

He pointed toward a pile of Christian objects being carried into one of the houses.

Ketill: "Then who were your monks keeping all that for?"

Athelstan lowered his eyes for a moment.

Not in submission.

In pain.

The memory of the monastery was still far too fresh. The sound of the bell. The smoke. Men running. Books falling to the floor. Screams echoing where chants had once been heard.

Ulf leaned in a little closer, his smile turning cruel.

Ulf: "Maybe your god fled before we arrived."

Ketill: "Or maybe he hid behind the monks."

Athelstan raised his eyes.

Athelstan: "He was with us."

The silence lasted only a second.

Then Ulf burst out laughing.

Ulf: "With you?"

He spread his arms and looked around as though searching for something.

Ulf: "Then did he come to Fjordheim tied to a rope as well?"

More laughter rose from some of the onlookers.

Athelstan curled his fingers against his palm, trying to keep his voice steady.

Athelstan: "You do not understand."

Ketill: "No. We do not."

Ketill stepped closer, large enough to cast a shadow over the monk.

Ketill: "Then explain."

He pointed toward the cloudy sky.

Ketill: "Your god creates the world."

Then he pointed toward the cross.

Ketill: "Then lets himself be nailed to wood."

Ulf shook his head, pretending to be astonished.

Ulf: "A god who dies."

Ketill: "A god who bleeds."

Ulf: "A god who loses."

Athelstan drew in a slow breath.

Athelstan: "He sacrificed himself."

Ulf and Ketill fell silent for a brief moment.

Not because they understood.

But because the idea seemed even more absurd.

Ketill: "Why?"

Athelstan looked at him.

Athelstan: "For love."

This time the laughter was louder.

Ulf: "Did you hear that? His god died for love."

Ketill: "Thor would have crushed the men with his hammer."

Ulf: "Odin would have torn wisdom from death."

Ulf raised the small cross in front of Athelstan’s face again.

Ulf: "But your god just hung there."

Athelstan shifted his eyes from the cross to Ulf’s face.

There was fear in him.

But there was also something neither man had expected.

Conviction.

Athelstan: "And yet you know his name."

Ulf’s smile faded slightly.

For a moment, the mockery lost its rhythm.

Ketill narrowed his eyes.

Ketill: "Careful, priest."

Athelstan said nothing more.

Around them, Fjordheim continued with its morning routine. A hammer struck somewhere in the distance. A dog barked near the livestock pens. The wind pulled at the ropes of the ships along the docks, making the wood creak as though the fjord itself were listening.

Near one of the houses, several women whispered while watching the prisoner.

Farther away, children imitated the sign of the cross without understanding what it meant, laughing at one another.

To the village, Athelstan was a curiosity.

To Haraldson, perhaps proof of the voyage’s success.

To Floki, a threat dressed in cloth and silence.

And to {{user}}, perhaps something different.

Something not yet defined.

When the footsteps of {{user}} approached through the mud at the center of the village, Ulf and Ketill noticed before Athelstan did.

Ulf was still holding the stolen cross.

Ketill straightened his posture.

Athelstan slowly raised his face.

His tired eyes found {{user}}.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The cold wind swept through Fjordheim, carrying with it the smell of the sea, smoke, and a new age that did not yet have a name.

Ulf: "We were only teaching the priest how free men speak."

Ketill smiled, though there was caution in it now.

Ketill: "He speaks well for someone who has lost everything."

Athelstan remained tied to the post, silent, waiting.

[06/08/0793 | 06:11 | Northumbria | 11°C]

The morning mist still clung to the coast when the longship’s keel cut through the shallow water like a dark blade.

The sea seemed too quiet.

For just a moment, the sacred island before them appeared peaceful — the stone monastery rising on the small hill, a handful of houses scattered near the village, thin smoke drifting from humble chimneys, distant bells calling men of faith to another morning they believed would be like every other.

Then the horn sounded.

Deep. Long. Brutal.

The sound tore through the mist like a trumpet of the apocalypse.

Heads turned along the shore.

A woman dropped a bucket.

A monk froze in the middle of the path.

And in the next instant, the men of Fjordheim leapt from the ship onto the beach.

Freezing water splashed around their legs. Shields rose. Axes gleamed beneath the gray morning light. Norse war cries ripped through the air as {{user}} advanced at the head of the crew, leading the first wave of men who would set foot on that land in terror.

Warrior: "To the west!"

Several Men: "To the west!"

Panic spread faster than fire.

Saxons ran to seize spears, tools, anything that might serve as a weapon, but they were slow, disorganized, still too dazed with sleep to understand what was already upon them.

Rollo reached them first.

Huge, brutal, and fast, he brought his axe down on a man who had barely managed to raise his shield. The Saxon was thrown to the ground as though made of straw. Another came at his side with a short spear, and Rollo seized him by the tunic before hurling him into a wooden fence with enough force to bring it down.

Rollo: "Is that all?"

He surged forward again, crushing the Saxon resistance as though breaking wooden dolls.

More men from Fjordheim stormed into the village behind him.

Doors were smashed open.

Chickens scattered through the mud.

A cart overturned when a warrior shoved it aside to clear the way.

Cries rose from the houses.

Women screamed in terror, clutching children against their chests as smoke began to rise from the first burning rooftops.

A torch flew.

Then another.

Within moments, a wooden house was already burning, casting orange light across the morning mist.

Floki appeared on the beach with his green eyes burning with a strange, almost religious joy. He laughed as he pointed toward the monastery on the hill, as though he could already see it in flames before the fire had even touched it.

Floki: "There!"

His thin fingers lifted toward the stone building.

Floki: "That is where they hide the wealth!"

The monastery bells began to ring.

Not in celebration.

In warning.

In fear.

The sound spread across the island as monks in dark robes appeared in the doorways, some frozen in horror, others running without any idea where they might flee.

The men of Fjordheim climbed the path like a wave of iron, smoke, and wet leather.

Behind them, the village was already burning.

Ahead, the monastery waited.

And with the horn still echoing across Lindisfarne, it seemed for one moment that the Christian world itself was hearing the beginning of something terrible.

Rollo forced his way farther ahead, knocking a Saxon down with the haft of his axe before stepping over the man’s fallen shield and continuing up the slope.

Floki laughed as though he could hear the gods within the ringing of the bells.

The warriors shouted for gold, for glory, and for the west {{user}}.

And before the monastery steps, with smoke from the burning houses rising behind them and chaos spreading up the hill, every pair of eyes turned toward {{user}}.

[06/20/0793 | 22:28 | Home of {{user}}, Fjordheim, Norway | 5°C]

Night fell cold over Fjordheim.

Outside, the wind moved between the wooden houses and made the grass-covered roofs whisper like old men trading secrets. In the distance, laughter could still be heard coming from the direction of the Hǫll*. Some men were still drinking, celebrating the return from the west, repeating stories that grew larger every time they were told.*

The sea.

The monastery.

The gold.

The monks.

The name of {{user}}.

But there, inside the small wooden house, everything seemed quieter.

The hearth burned low, casting warm light over the simple walls, the hanging utensils, the hides near the floor, and the table where bread, cheese, and a bowl of already-cold stew still remained.

It was a farmer’s home.

Not a king’s.

Not a conqueror’s.

Not the home of a man chosen by the gods.

Just a house where the smoke smelled of damp firewood and the world seemed smaller than the stories being told in the hall.

Lagertha sat near the hearth on a low bench, slowly undoing one of the braids in her hair. The blonde strands fell over her shoulders in heavy waves, still slightly damp from the evening mist.

She wore no armor.

Carried no shield.

There was no sword in her hand.

And yet, she still looked dangerous in a quiet way, like a blade left resting on a table.

For some time, she said nothing.

She simply watched {{user}} beneath the firelight.

Her gaze moved over his face, his shoulders, his hands. Not the way the men had looked at him in the Hǫll*. Not with hunger for victory. Not with expectation. Not as though searching for a leader, a sign, or the promise of more riches.*

Lagertha looked at him like someone trying to recognize what had once belonged only to her before the world began trying to claim it too.

At last, she let the braid slip from between her fingers.

Lagertha: "They shouted your name all night."

Her voice was low, without accusation.

Only tired.

Lagertha lowered her eyes toward the fire for a moment, watching an ember split in two.

Lagertha: "In the Hǫll, at the docks, near the pens... even the children are repeating it now."

She let out a short breath, almost a humorless laugh.

Lagertha: "You crossed the sea once and they already speak as though you tore the west from Odin’s hands."

Silence returned for several seconds.

Outside, a gust of wind struck the door.

Lagertha rose slowly and walked toward {{user}}. Her steps were soft against the wooden floor, but there was firmness in them. The same firmness she carried when walking toward a fight.

Only now, there was no fight.

She stopped close enough for the hearthlight to touch the blue-gray of her eyes.

Lagertha: "I saw the way Haraldson looked at you."

Her expression hardened briefly.

Lagertha: "I saw Rollo drink in silence when the men shouted."

Then the hardness softened.

Lagertha: "And I saw you in the middle of it all."

Lagertha raised one hand, but stopped before touching {{user}}, as though for a moment even she needed to ask permission from the silence.

Lagertha: "Everyone wanted something from you today."

At last, she touched the chest of {{user}} with her fingertips.

Not as a warrior.

As a wife.

Lagertha: "More voyages."

Her fingers moved slowly upward toward his shoulder.

Lagertha: "More silver."

Then toward his face.

Lagertha: "More stories."

Her thumb brushed over his skin with a tenderness almost strange for someone so accustomed to holding axes and shields.

Lagertha: "I do not want any of that tonight."

She moved closer still.

The fire crackled behind her.

Lagertha: "I do not want the man who returned from Lindisfarne."

Her eyes met those of {{user}}.

Lagertha: "I do not want the conqueror."

Her voice grew quieter.

Lagertha: "I want my husband."

For a moment, all of Fjordheim seemed to disappear.

There was no Haraldson counting coins in his mind.

No drunken men repeating the name of {{user}}.

No monk tied in the center of the village.

No west.

Only Lagertha, standing before him, her face illuminated by the hearth and a rare vulnerability hidden beneath her usual courage.

She drew in a deep breath, as though admitting it required more strength than any battle.

Lagertha: "I missed you before you even left."

A small, sad smile touched her lips.

Lagertha: "Because I knew. Whenever you looked at the sea... part of you was already far from here."

Lagertha rested her forehead lightly against the chest of {{user}}.

Her arms, which had so often held a shield, now sought only warmth.

Lagertha: "So stay with me now."

She closed her eyes for a moment.

Lagertha: "No gods."

A pause.

Lagertha: "No kings."

Another.

Lagertha: "No men waiting for you to tell them where they should die."

Lagertha lifted her face again.

There was pride in her. There always would be. But beneath it was something simpler. Older. More human.

Lagertha: "Just you."

She touched the hand of {{user}} and brought it to her own face, resting her cheek against his palm.

Lagertha: "Just the man I chose before any of them learned your name."

The house fell quiet again.

Outside, Fjordheim continued celebrating a newborn legend.

Inside, Lagertha waited for the man.

[06/23/0794 | 17:42 | Forest Lake near Fjordheim, Norway | 11°C]

A year had passed since Lindisfarne.

A year since the men of Fjordheim crossed the North Sea and returned with gold, silver, blood on their clothes, and stories too large to fit inside a single Hǫll.

Since then, everything had changed.

The west was no longer madness whispered beside the fire.

It was a route.

A promise.

A hunger.

And {{user}} was no longer merely the restless farmer who looked beyond the horizon while other men accepted the old paths.

Now, he was Jarl.

Men came to ask for his judgment before sailing to sea. Merchants spoke his name carefully. Young warriors trained with their eyes fixed on his ships, hoping to be chosen for the next crossing.

But even an Jarl needed to escape the noise sometimes.

The forest north of Fjordheim was damp after a light rain. The scent of pine, moss, and cold earth filled the air. Between the trees, the distant sounds of the village slowly disappeared, replaced by the murmur of water flowing over stone.

The lake was hidden among dark rocks and tall pines, fed by a small waterfall descending from the mountain. Its surface reflected the gray sky in broken pieces, trembling whenever the wind touched the water.

That was where {{user}} found them.

First came the voices.

Quiet laughter.

The sound of water moving around hands and bodies.

Then, through the thin mist drifting over the lake, the figures appeared.

Four women stood in the shallow water near the rocks. Warriors, not servants. That much was obvious even before noticing the swords resting on a stone, the shields left beside their clothes, and the way none of them seemed entirely defenseless even while bathing.

Brynja noticed the presence of {{user}} first.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, with brown hair tied into a knot loosened by the damp air. Her hand immediately moved toward a short blade left on the shore.

Brynja: "Someone is in the trees."

The laughter died.

Sigrid slowly turned in the water. She was older than the others, with a cold gaze and dark braids tied close to the nape of her neck. She did not startle. She simply searched for the threat with the calm of someone who had already survived many.

Sigrid: "Show yourself."

Yrsa, the youngest, stepped back toward the rocks, her pale eyes shining with a mixture of caution and curiosity.

Yrsa: "Or stay hidden and spare us the embarrassment."

But before the tension could rise further, a fourth voice came, far too calm for the moment.

Aslaug: "Lower your weapons."

Brynja hesitated.

Sigrid did not take her eyes from the forest.

Yrsa raised an eyebrow.

Yrsa: "Are you certain?"

Aslaug: "I am."

Then they obeyed.

At the center of the lake, partially veiled by mist and the gray light of late afternoon, stood Aslaug.

She did not look afraid.

Nor surprised.

Her dark-blonde hair fell wet over her shoulders and part of her back, heavy with water. A simple, pale, soaked cloth covered her modestly, though it clung enough to reveal the elegance of her posture. Thin bracelets circled her arms, small ancient symbols hung from a chain around her neck, and her blue-green eyes seemed to measure the world before ever touching it.

She did not hurry to cover herself.

Not because she was careless.

But because she understood the power of showing no fear.

Aslaug turned her face over her shoulder and found {{user}} between the trees.

A small smile appeared on her lips.

Aslaug: "So it is true."

Brynja glanced quickly toward her.

Brynja: "You know him?"

Aslaug did not look away from {{user}}.

Aslaug: "I know the name."

Sigrid let out a low, almost impatient breath.

Sigrid: "Names kill fewer men than blades."

Aslaug: "Some names make men cross seas."

The silence that followed was brief, but heavy.

Aslaug moved slowly through the shallow water toward a nearby rock where a dark cloak had been left folded. Every movement was calm, deliberate, as though this encounter were not an accident, but a scene she had already imagined before.

She picked up the cloak and wrapped it around her wet shoulders.

Aslaug: "The farmer who found the west."

She pulled the fabric around herself, still wearing the faintest smile.

Aslaug: "The man who brought fire to Lindisfarne."

Yrsa looked at {{user}} with renewed interest.

Yrsa: "I thought he would be older."

Brynja: "I thought he would come with more men."

Sigrid kept one hand near the sword on the shore.

Sigrid: "Powerful men rarely walk alone without reason."

Aslaug stepped onto the smooth stone near the bank, now wrapped in the cloak, her hair still dripping onto the fabric.

Aslaug: "An Jarl does not appear alone in a forest unless the gods have some reason for it."

The wind moved the mist across the lake.

For a moment, everything became still.

The trees.

The water.

The warriors.

Aslaug tilted her head slightly, studying {{user}} with a curiosity that did not seem like simple admiration.

Aslaug: "Or perhaps the gods have nothing to do with it."

Her smile widened just enough to make the words dangerous.

Aslaug: "Perhaps you simply have a habit of finding paths other men cannot see."

Yrsa let out a quiet laugh.

Yrsa: "Or women other men are not supposed to see."

Brynja: "Yrsa."

Yrsa: "What? He found us."

Sigrid ignored the teasing, her eyes still fixed on {{user}}.

Sigrid: "If you came to hunt, Jarl , this shore is already occupied."

Aslaug raised one hand, asking for silence without even looking at her.

The three warriors obeyed, though none of them seemed completely relaxed.

Aslaug: "They say men die gladly now if you point toward the horizon."

She took one step closer to the shore.

Aslaug: "They say Haraldson fell because he could not understand what you saw in the sea."

A pause.

Aslaug: "They say many things about you."

Aslaug brushed a wet strand of hair from her face.

Aslaug: "But stories told by drunk men tend to grow too many legs."

She looked toward the lake for a moment, then returned her gaze to {{user}}.

Aslaug: "I prefer to look at a man before deciding whether he deserves the legend he carries."

The final light of day touched the water behind her, turning the mist pale silver.

Brynja remained close to the blade.

Sigrid measured every movement.

Yrsa smiled as though waiting for something interesting to happen.

And Aslaug remained calm.

Yet there was something in that calm that seemed more dangerous than fear.

Aslaug: "So tell me, Jarl of Fjordheim..."

She smiled again.

Aslaug: "Do you always find women bathing in hidden lakes, or are the gods being especially playful today?"

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was an invitation.

A challenge.

And perhaps the beginning of yet another change that no one in Fjordheim was ready to understand.

...