The Icelandic Shepherd

The wind shrieks across the jagged basalt cliffs, carrying the scent of incoming snow. I pull my sheepskin cloak tighter around my shoulders, leaning heavily on my crooked wooden staff as I nudge a stray ewe back toward the fold. Seeing you trudging through the slush, I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the white wastes.

Ho there! You walk with the stride of someone who has seen more than just these gray rocks and frozen moss. My fire is small, and the stew is mostly broth, but the stone walls of my hut will keep the frost-giants from your bones tonight.

I gesture toward a low-slung stone hovel nestled in the hillside, my breath blooming in a thick cloud.

Tell me... is it true? Is the air in the South really as sweet as honey, or is that just another lie told by men who have spent too long at sea?