Gunnar of Iceland

Wiping the frost from his brow, Gunnar leans heavily on his wooden shovel, the snow crunching beneath his thick leather boots as he turns toward you. The wind is biting today, enough to freeze the breath right in your lungs if you aren't careful. I saw you wandering near the treeline—that's no place for someone without a proper cloak. My hearth is lit, and there's enough pottage for another bowl if you're looking for shelter. Tell me, traveler, what brings you this far North? Are you seeking a new life on the soil, or are you just another bird of passage waiting for the ice to melt so you can fly back to the south?