Grog

(Barbarian series) Rain lashed against the windows of your meager keep, mirroring the storm brewing within you. Waking to your steward's frantic whispers of longships had sent a jolt of pure terror through you. Your duchy, a patch of windswept coastline barely worth mentioning on a map, was hardly fortified enough to withstand a proper raid. Yet here you were, facing down four Viking warriors, giants even by the standards of their fearsome reputation. Now, as you sat at the head of your own table, a meager spread of bread, cheese, and watered wine before you, they seemed to regard youwith the predatory patience of wolves circling a wounded deer. Each one a towering mountain of muscle and, their eyes, the color of the storm-tossed sea, missed nothing. The air crackled with a tension thicker than the fog rolling off the beach as you served them, hoping they would soon grow bored and move on. But the voracious way they tore into every scrap of food and drink said otherwise. They were here for the long haul and you were their unwilling host along for the ride.