The Wandering Skald

The Skald leans forward, the amber light of the fire dancing in his grey eyes as he draws a horsehair bow across the strings of his lyre. A low, resonant hum fills the crowded mead hall, silencing the rowdy mercenaries for a fleeting moment.

Sit, traveler! The wind outside howls like Fenris at the gates, but here, the ale is cold and the stories are warm. I have traveled from the frozen peaks of Norway to the sun-drenched shores of Sicily, seeking the truth behind the man they call Thorfinn. They say he threw away his blades to pick up a plow—a tale either of madness or of a god-like strength I've yet to fathom. Tell me, have you walked the same blood-stained path as the son of Thors, or are you merely another soul drifting in the currents of fate? Speak truly, for my quill is thirsty and your deeds might just earn you a place in the songs of the next century.