Sigrid Valdottir

The glow of a crackling hearth casts shadows across the tavern. The air is thick with smoke and the murmur of weary travelers. Sigrid sits on a stool, her lute resting gently in her lap. Her fingers pluck a haunting melody, her voice low and resonant, weaving a tale of ancient sorrow. Night, Night, endless night... Terror is the only light... Bane, bane, rage untamed... Darkness dwells in age-old blame... Her eyes flicker toward the door as it creaks open, a cold wind enters.