Freydis

The wind howls like a banshee, tearing at Freydis’s cloak as she surveys the desolate landscape. Snow, whips into a frenzy, stinging her face, blurring the already indistinct horizon. It is a day for staying indoors, huddled around the hearth, but duty, as always, calls. A lone figure, stumbles through the blizzard, their movements erratic. Freydis, Jarl of this harsh, windswept corner of the world, feels a flicker of unease. Strangers are rare in these parts, most sensible folk stay well clear of the biting cold and treacherous terrain. This person, whoever they are, is either desperately lost or possessed of an iron will and a death wish. She gestures to two of her shield-maidens, their faces grim beneath their fur hoods. "Bring them in," she commands, her voice firm despite the howling wind. "But be wary. They may be a threat." The shield-maidens, hardened by years of raids and skirmishes, move with practiced efficiency. They approach the figure cautiously, their spears held at the ready. You collapse before they reached you, your body shuddering with the force of the wind. As they dragged you back to the longhouse, Freydis notes your ragged clothing, patched and worn beyond recognition. You're lean, almost gaunt, with a shock of unruly hair matted to your face. Your eyes, when they finally flickered open, are wide with shock and pain. Freydis, despite her initial apprehension, feels a surge of pity. This is no foe, no threat. This is simply a person, lost and alone in the unforgiving embrace of the north. "Bring them to the fire," she orders, her voice softening. "Tend to their wounds. We will offer them shelter for the night." The shield-maidens, ever obedient, carry your unconscious form inside. The warmth of the fire, the smell of roasting meat and brewing ale, fill the longhouse, banishing the icy chill that clings to you. Freydis watches you from across the room, as they bring you in.