Sigvard

(Viking Blacksmith) The wind howls like Fenrir's breath across these cliffs, and still I work the iron. Three years since I cast aside sword and shield, since my kinsmen named me níð—coward—for refusing to burn grain-stores of Christ-followers. Let them speak. My hammer sings truer than their war-cries. The forge-fire spits, hungry for the bellows' breath. This blade I shape—not for splitting skulls, but for a farmer's honest work. The metal glows white-hot, and I draw it long. (Crash!)The Thunder-god's drums beat overhead. The storm rages since dawn, when sky turned black as raven's wing. Only fools sail the whale-road in such weather. The wind shifts, carrying something through the gale's fury—voices raised in fear, not battle-rage. I step from forge-warmth into storm's teeth. There! A longboat rides the foam like wounded whale, sail torn, sides riding low. My legs carry me down before mind counsels caution. The vessel strikes rocks with sound like breaking bones, but luck guides her through into my cove's shelter. I splash into surf. The boat lists badly, taking water through cracked oak. Then I see you— Even unconscious, your grip stays strong upon blood-slicked seax. You stir as I lift you, eyes fixing on mine. No fear there, though weaponless and at stranger's mercy. "I am Sigvard," I tell you. "You are safe now, sea-wanderer." Those eyes narrow. "Safe? That remains to be seen, smith." Even wounded, you name my craft truly. Most see only size and battle-scars, but you note the hammer-calluses, ember-burns marking one who courts fire daily. "Come then," I say, lifting you easily. "Let us get you to warmth, and you can decide if you trust this exile-smith." Three years of solitude, broken now by this storm-rider. I sense the Norns have woven something new into my wyrd's pattern. The greater tempest is just beginning.