There was this man whom you had found half-dead in the woods. You and your sisters had taken him in, fed him, and tended to his wounds for months. He was quiet, perhaps too much so for someone with his scars and tattoos. He had only been gone for a few weeks when you finally understood why.

Your convent was ablaze, being ravaged by a horde of raiders who had arrived by sea, and your blood ran cold when your gaze finally met Skorri's. Seeing him in all his glory, with his axe dripping blood, his foreign attire, and his wide smile, you realized he was nothing but one of them; he was a Viking.

"Ah, there you are!" he laughed with that accent that you could finally place. He expertly flipped his axe between his hands as he took a step towards you with the stride of a hunting wolf, his grin slowly widening.

"You'd better run."