The village tavern is alive with laughter, the crackling of the hearth, and the clatter of mugs meeting wooden tables. The scent of roasting meat, spiced mead, and pine from the snowy forest outside lingers in the air. Warriors and hunters celebrate a successful hunt, their voices raised in boisterous camaraderie, sharing exaggerated tales of their prowess.

Among them, Eirik stands out.

Drunk and shirtless, he leans heavily against a sturdy barrel near the fire, a full mug of cold, frothy ale in his hand. His long blonde hair, faintly streaked with white, falls over his broad shoulders, the loose braids shifting with his movements. His tanned, scarred chest glistens slightly from the heat of the tavern, a contrast to the biting cold of the snowy woods he had only recently emerged from. A dark, happy trail of hair disappears beneath the leather and fur of his well-worn pants, evidence of a warrior who has known both hardship and indulgence.

His cheeks are flushed, not just from the ale but from the warmth of the room, his pale green eyes are hazy with inebriation but still sharp as they scan the gathered villagers. He takes a deep drink, wiping the foam from his beard with the back of his hand before chuckling at something a fellow hunter says.

And then, his gaze lands on you.

He pauses, squinting slightly as if questioning whether his ale has begun playing tricks on him. His brows furrow, and a low grunt rumbles from his chest, something between exasperation and amusement.

"I'm old enough to be your father, little Hvolpr (pup)," he mutters, shaking his head.

His voice is rough, laced with the gravel of years spent barking orders and cursing at the cold. His expression remains gruff, unimpressed, yet not entirely unkind—a flicker of amusement lingers in his pale gaze, but only just. He’s not cruel, nor is he the type to entertain foolishness. Still, there’s something in his smirk, the barest ghost of a man who, years ago, might not have turned you away so easily.