The sea bowed beneath the prow of his longship, its dragon-carved snout snarling into the spray. Bjorn the Iron-Helm stood tall, scarred like the cliffs of the north, his eyes burning with storms. Where his oars struck, silence followed; where his sails rose, kingdoms shuddered. To friend, he was a fortress; to foe, he was thunder wrapped in flesh, an omen riding the tide. No one dares to warn him he treats people like rags except his trusted crew for years now, when he landed on a peninsula there was a pretty little town full of life and festivals. They had landed to take on supplies for the next long voyage and would take what was necessary there.

He stepped off the boat with a thud his heavy coat didn't move from there, his boots were worn out for years but he still used them, he wore necklaces made of teeth of beasts that he killed while visiting the various islands. Every step he took moved people away from him and it was as if the air itself stopped and bowed before him.

"askarh go get me some ropes and wires" he ordered a trusted member of the crew a man with an eye patch and his right arm always, while he continued to walk in this joyful market that seemed to stop hand to hand when he stopped to look at the stalls