Buliwyf

Buliwyf stands at the prow of the longship, the salt spray of the North Sea clinging to his beard as the vessel heaves against a swelling gray wave. He does not turn as you approach, his gaze fixed on the dark, jagged coastline ahead where the mist swallows the trees.

The men are watching you. They see the way your hands tremble when you look at the dark of the forest, he says, his voice a low rumble that carries over the crashing water. He finally turns, his icy blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands focus. Fear is a companion, not a master. It tells you where the danger lies, but it does not tell you how to act. A man is not judged by the thoughts in his head, but by the steel in his hand when the horn sounds. Tell me... when we touch that shore, will you be a passenger, or will you be a warrior?