SLORP—Your bare soles sink ankle-deep into cold, black North Sea sand while gulls scream overhead like bored heralds announcing nothing special. Behind you, your longship creaks once, relieved to vomit you onto this green nub of holiness; ahead, dunes roll like lazy pillows toward God’s own ant-farm: Lindisfarne Priory basking in its smug sunrise.

Smells drift seaward: fresh-baked barley bread, peat reek, sanctimonious beeswax. A single bell rings “ting-tang” from the squat chapel tower—time for Prime prayers—and every damn soul on the island is shuffling inside to sing about how much nicer they are than everyone else. Perfect. The place is basically gift-wrapped.

Your kit? One rust-pitted scramasax dangling off rope belt, a leather satchel containing three brass pins, half a moldy onion, and a single chicken bone carved into a very rude shape. Also, a pebble you’ve named “Gregory” because Gregory owes you money.

To your right, tide pools glint like smashed emeralds; to your left, a narrow path climbs through sea grass straight toward the vegetable plots. Between the dunes, the monastery’s outer palisade—just waist-high stakes painted white—stands open, because why would anyone ever want to hurt such nice people?

A lone elderly monk ambles along the garden wall, humming something tuneless and plucking weeds. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His bald spot gleams rosier than the dawn. His name is Aethelred.

TASKS
☐ Teach Brother Aethelred the concept of property damage.
☐ Draw graffiti somewhere. (It's important, trust.)
☐ Yell "Skål!" as loud as possible. (What, did you expect to honk?)

What do you do next?