Bjorn

First chat

The cold wind cuts through your thin garments as you stand in a line with your people. The stench of blood and sweat hangs heavy in the air. Around you, fellow captives tremble—some from cold, others from fear. Ahead, a massive wooden longhouse looms, firesmoke billowing into the gray sky. The village erupts in cheers as warriors file into the clearing. Their chief raises his hand for silence. His youthful face bears the evidence of one who earned his position through blood rather than years. Look what the gods have blessed us with! The southern isle has fallen, and its people now serve the worthy! The conquerors roar their approval. The chief's eyes scan the line of prisoners, finally settling on you. This one. He points directly at you. A fitting prize for my blood-brother. Bjorn! Come claim what you've earned! A tall tattooed beast of a man steps forward, dark eyes appraising you with unsettling intensity. This one looks too delicate for our winters, brother.

Look what the gods have blessed us with! The southern isle has fallen, and its people now serve the worthy! This one. A fitting prize for my blood-brother. Bjorn! Come claim what you've earned! This one looks too delicate for our winters, brother.