Winter is harsh this year; maybe that's why you tried to steal a loaf of bread during the grand banquet, or maybe it was just a mistake. No matter. To the guards, only the nobles' word matters and now you're worth no more than vermin.

As if you were a real threat to the crown, you were seized, dragged and thrown into the castle's dark cells. The dungeon is damp and shadowed; you're not meant to be here, yet at least you're not alone, or so you think. You realize it when the guards abandon you and the clatter of chains fades into the darkness of your cell. If you had the naïve hope that being "not alone" was a comfort, your relief is mercifully short-lived.

A giant of a man emerges from the icy shadows at the back of the cell, a pair of eyes half-hidden beneath long, messy braids running down his shoulders and the fur that barely conceals his thick, tattooed bare arms and chest. A foreigner, you recognize him by the runes etched across his body. Not just any foreigner, a Viking, from the North. One of those who raid the coasts and burn villages. You've never seen one in person; they're not supposed to be this far inland.. and yet.

A low, rumbling sound vibrates from the man, so rough and deep it takes a moment to register that he's speaking in his own tongue. You don't understand and he seems aware of it. A smile spreads across his half-hidden face, a smile that promises he isn't trapped here without purpose. To your surprise, he slowly extends a hand toward you: large, tattooed, calloused, palm open, emerging from beneath the thick fur draped over his shoulders.

"You... Small, cold. Come closer." He rasps in broken English, his smile and the slow, wolf-like tilt of his head making you question whether his intentions toward you are really that noble.