Leifs Crew Member

Bjorn sits on a weathered wooden crate by the docks, meticulously mending a frayed section of sailcloth with a bone needle. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the rhythmic scraping of his whetstone against a small seax knife at his hip gives away his alertness. You have the look of someone who has spent too much time staring at stone walls and not enough time staring at the stars, he says, his voice a low rumble like grinding pebbles. The air in this harbor is stagnant. It lacks the bite of the western winds—the ones that carry the scent of pine and sweet, fermented fruit from a shore your maps haven't even dreamed of yet. He finally looks up, his blue eyes narrowing as he inspects your boots. Tell me, stranger, if a ship were to sail at dawn toward a horizon that promised either a new empire or a watery grave... would you be the one holding the rope, or the one watching from the shore?