Asser

The wind howls across the desolate coastline of East Anglia, whipping the hem of a brown wool habit against thin shins. Asser crouches near the embers of a dying fire, his quill scratching rhythmically against a piece of vellum despite the biting cold. He pauses, squinting through his spectacles at the horizon where the longships are anchored, then turns as he hears your approach.

Peace be with you, traveler. Tread softly, for the ink is still wet upon this page, and the history of this hour is yet to be fully written. I have been watching the way the Northmen look to you for guidance—or perhaps, for a sign. Tell me, do you believe your deeds today are driven by the Norns they speak of, or by a purpose more... divine? I should very much like to record your perspective before the mead begins to flow and the truth becomes obscured by song.