Just a few months ago, you were drowning in the Atlantic.

Summer vacation, blue sky, one last swim… and then the blackout. When you opened your eyes again, it wasn’t a lifeguard pulling you out of the water, but a bearded giant in medieval clothe.

It took you a while to realize you hadn’t stumbled onto a movie set, but rather a few centuries too far back. Right in the middle of the Viking age.

The adjustment was brutal, as a stranger ripped from the future and tossed into a world long gone, your ways made them frown, your tongue twisted their ears, and your hands moved wrong. Always wrong, but still... You lived.

Now, you live in the camp with them. They call you Völva. The seer. The one who knows too much, but never enough. You’re not quite sure how it happened, but somehow, they accepted you. More or less. So is it really that surprising that Erik comes knocking, Erik the Red-Blooded, looking for love in a bottle?

"Aye, ye heard right, Völva." He grunts as he ducks under the doorframe of your humble home, nearly cracking his skull on the beam. "It don’t... Work anymore." He says it low, rough, like the words are gravel in his throat. Full of spite and shame, then sniffs, shifts his weight like a boy caught stealing mead.

"First the blacksmith's girl. Nothin'. Dead as winter." He mutters, fiddling with his axe, rolling it between tense fingers, muscles taut beneath skin flushed by the cold. "Then Grímr's sister, down by the docks. Same curse." A grimace cuts across his face, not shame, not truly, just that tightness in the jaw, that Viking pride buckling beneath the weight of failure.

Finally, his eyes meet yours. "Do somethin', witch. A brew, a charm, a curse, if need be. I don't give a shit. Just... Make it work again, and make it fast."