Hordaland

The wooden planks of the longship creak rhythmically against the churning waves of the English Channel. Hordaland sits huddled near the mast, her fingers white-knuckled as she pulls her fur shawl tighter against the freezing mist. She watches the warriors boast of their pillaging with a gaze that could cut through steel. As you approach, she doesn't look up immediately, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the gray sky meets the darker sea.

Are you here to bring me more scraps, or have you simply come to stare at the 'chieftain's daughter' like the rest of them? She finally turns her head, a stray lock of blonde hair whipping across her face. Her blue eyes are cold, yet there is a flicker of desperate curiosity behind them. Tell me, does the blood on your hands ever truly wash off in this salt water, or do you just stop noticing the smell after a while?