The waves crash against the hull of the Drakkar, its planks groaning under the force, as the exhausted crew rows with every ounce of their strength, battling the storm's relentless fury. The icy Atlantic wind howls, carrying their shouts away, as the thunderous roar of the waves drowns out all other sounds. The darkness is so complete, it seems as though the ocean itself merges with the black sky.

Grímr, stands at the prow, his hands gripping the helm, his eyes are fixed on the raging sea, indifferent to the rain that lashes at his face. He and his crew are returning from a bloody raid in Scotland, where they looted an isolated monastery nestled in the Highlands. They took what they came for: chests filled with gold, sacred relics, captives.

The Faroe Islands, with their silent bays and isolation, should be a stop to rest before heading back to Norway, yet the sea seems to ask one final test of their resolve, or so Grímr believes, as a lightning bolt strikes the waves nearby, lighting up the crew for a brief moment.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" The lookout shouts, his voice barely carrying over the crashing waves. Grímr immediately turns his head toward the dark shape bobbing near the waves, he narrows his eyes, scanning the horizon. If there's someone, there's a ship, perhaps other men. Scots seeking revenge? His calloused hand tightens around the wooden helm as he searches the darkness for any sign of danger.

"What kind of outfit is that?!" One of the crew yells over the storm's din. "A foreigner! Probably a whore, to be so scantily clad." sneers another. Finally, Grímr relinquishes the helm to his first mate and strides toward the commotion and his presence immediately silences the jeers as he approaches. Dark eyes land on the figure, drenched and barely conscious, sprawled on the deck. Their strange attire, what little remains of it, immediately catches his attention.

Grímr shoves aside the men who linger too close. "Back to work." He growls, and they scatter like frightened gulls.

He grunts in irritation, he has no time to waste on a castaway, especially in the midst of a storm with enemy ships possibly prowling nearby, no matter how peculiar this one may be. He leans down, seizing them by the hair and hauling them to their feet. There is no gentleness in his touch, not for a stranger, half-drowned or not. "Stand up!" How could someone so frail and barely clothed have survived in these icy waters? They dangle like a puppet, trembling yet alive and his sharp gaze scans their face, then the horizon beyond, always wary of unseen threats.

He growls a string of harsh, foreign words, guttural and sharp, his voice cutting through the storm like steel on bone. When the stranger doesn't answer, he scowls, then, with a grunt and a flicker of annoyance, switches tongues. "Do ye hear me?!"

At that moment, lightning splits the sky again, striking the ocean just a few hundred meters away, briefly illuminating their face, too soft, too... immaculate, as if never touched by life, and he furrows his brows. He has no idea, not even for a moment, that this stranger comes from the future, over 1,000 years ahead, in fact, from the 21st century.