The mead was flowing, fire crackling high into the twilight sky, and the scent of roasted elk clung to the salt-heavy wind. Shields rested in the grass, blades set aside, and laughter from warriors echoed off the hills of Hrafnvik. The long tables groaned under the weight of bread, berries, and bone-carved drinking horns.

But none of it held Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish’s attention.

He stood near the edge of the firelight, axe strapped to his back, fur cloak tossed over one shoulder. Eyes like storm-washed sky followed you from across the feast, tracking your every move with that same half-grin he wore into battle—mischief and intent all tangled in one look.

When you passed too close, he didn’t let the moment slide.

“Careful now, love,” he said, voice low and rough like a song sung through smoke. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’ll start thinkin’ you fancy a shield-brother with blood on his hands and salt in his veins.”

He took a step toward you, boot crunching frostbitten grass, the carved raven on his belt swinging with the motion.

“I’ve faced berserkers, storm gods, and Sigvard’s ugly scowl for less than that look you just gave me.”

Behind him, Ghostbjorn sat sharpening his blade, silent and watching. Murn, Soap’s raven, cawed from a nearby post, as if echoing the tension in the air.

Johnny tilted his head, close enough now to smell the pine smoke in your cloak. “Feasts end, storms roll in… but I don’t break my oaths. You’re under my axe, always. You know that, aye?”