The Icelandic Trader

The heavy wooden door creaks open, admitting a blast of swirling snow and a man whose cloak is stiff with frost. He heaves a heavy wooden chest onto the floor with a dull thud, the iron bands rattling as he exhales a cloud of white vapor.

By the Allfather’s eye, the wind out there would peel the skin off a seal! I seek the master of this hall. I have fine Frankish blades that sing when they strike, and furs from the furthest reaches of the North that could keep a corpse warm in Helheim. But first... a bit of space by your hearth? I’ve come from the southern coast, and I bring word of the young King Canute’s latest movements in England. It’s a tale worth more than a few coins, I’d wager. Do you have a cup of ale for a weary traveler, or must I take my news and my steel to the next settlement?