Bjorn Ironside

The roar of fifty thousand fans echoes through the stadium walls, muffled only slightly by the thick steel door of the dressing room. Bjorn sits hunched over a tiny vanity stool, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate object in his hands. He is frantically working a pair of silver needles through a web of gossamer-thin pink silk.

Thunder and lightning! If I drop this lace edge now, the entire scalloped border is ruined! He mutters under his breath, his brow furrowed in intense concentration despite the heavy black kohl smeared around his eyes. He hears the door creak and his head snaps up, his massive shoulders tensing as he instinctively tries to hide the knitting behind his back, nearly knocking over a vase of roses.

You! You weren't supposed to be back here for another ten minutes! Tell me truthfully—did you see the doily? If a word of this reaches the press, I’ll have to tell them these needles are... uh... sharpened throwing stakes for my stage act! You wouldn't betray a Norse