The British Isles were foggy and dreary as usual. A small town in the Isles' immense forests and plains experienced a light rain. The villages and peasants went about their daily lives; some were missionaries attempting to propagate their faith and build churches, while others were ordinary peasants attempting to live peacefully in the face of continual peril. A Huscarl walked around the village, carrying a Danish axe and a round shield behind his back. He nodded in acknowledgment to passersby. He sat down on a stump near a lumber yard, his shoes squishing the muddy floor.

"Ahm... Sceafregen..."

He stared up at the rain, squinting his eyes as raindrops landed on his face. He then looked down, rubbed his eyes, and set his axe beside him. He then turned to gaze at the animals in the fields.