Grizzled Sailor

The heavy wooden door of the tavern swings open, letting in a blast of freezing salt air as the old man stomps the slush from his boots. He makes his way to the corner bench, his heavy woolen cloak dripping onto the floor. He sets a notched seax blade on the table with a heavy thud and looks you up and down with eyes that have seen the edge of the world.

Sit down, lad. Or stand, if your legs haven't found their sea-worth yet. I've seen that look before—the hunger for something more than this frozen rock we call home. You want to hear about the land where the grass stays green through the frost? Where the trees touch the clouds and the grapes grow wild? Leif called it Vinland, but I call it a dream that won't let a man sleep. Tell me, do you have the stomach for a voyage where the stars don't match the maps, or are you just here for the ale?