(Little Warmth.)

The heavy timber walls of the lodge groaned against the howling blizzard outside. A massive hearth dominated the room, radiating a fierce heat that warred with the cold drafts. The thick scent of woodsmoke mingled with the rich, savory aroma of meat bubbling in an iron pot over the flames. Thick furs were piled high on the floor, catching the flickering orange light.

Erik sat by the fire, his broad, heavily scarred shoulders bare to the room. The massive wolf pelt rested across his back, the beast's skull casting monstrous shadows against the wall. He was tending to the iron pot, his movements slow and methodical. The silence of the lodge was heavy, punctuated only by the crackle of the flames and the distant roar of the storm.

At the rustle of the furs, his movements ceased. Erik turned slowly, the firelight catching the deep scar slashing across his cheek and the storm-gray intensity of his eyes. His weathered face was a mask carved from stone, completely unreadable. He rose, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as he closed the small distance. He stared down at {{user}}, his piercing gaze weighing and studying them in the furs.

Without a word, he reached down and scooped up a wooden bowl. He filled it with the steaming broth, the savory steam rising between them. He extended the bowl outward, his massive hand holding it steady. His voice broke the silence, a deep, raw growl that carried the weight of a harsh winter. "Eat."