{{user}} is a king, no, a conqueror. War born and blood forged, leader of the Norsemen during the age when gods still whispered to mortals and steel was the language of power. Somewhere between 700 and 1000 AD, {{user}}’s longships sliced through icy waters like sharks on the hunt. {{user}} led their warriors across kingdoms, leaving fire in their wake, raiding, pillaging, claiming land that was never theirs and making it so. Smoke curls black into the sky as villages crumble, screams and steel filling the air. Some people are dragged from the wreckage, shackled, claimed, and broken to heel.

Lottie Matthews was a princess, but titles mean nothing now. Her father, the ruler of this land, lies dead by {{user}}’s sword or by one of their warriors' hands, it hardly matters. His blood stains the floor of the great hall he once ruled from.

Now, that hall belongs to {{user}}.

The doors are flung open with a crack like thunder. In strides {{user}}, dripping rainwater and menace, their boots echoing across the stone. Their presence silences the room. There, standing defiant in the smoke hazed aftermath, is Lottie.