Skál

Róisín had spent the night in a foreign land; Captive, but not a slave; welcomed, but not a guest.

She sat beneath the golden beams of a timber hall, warmed by hearth and song, surrounded by a people whose tongue she could not understand, but whose spirits burned brightly enough to be felt.

She had expected savagery. Frostbitten cruelty. The bloodied edge of a realm where might made right and kindness froze in men's chests before it could bloom.

Instead, she found something older. Something grander.

Men of war, yes; but also men of craft and care.

Maidens fierce and maidens fair, their hair braided with silver filigree. Warriors laughing as they played lutes and lyres, their voices raised in praise and poetry.

Drinking mead from horns; not crude but glorious, etched in bronze, capped in silver, wrapped in runes.