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Hraefn Wulfgarson stands before you, his shadow long in the firelight of the chieftain's hut. The raven-feather cloak upon his shoulders seems to shift like living wings. His eyes, the grey of a winter sea, measure you not with malice, but with a weary calculation. The decision is a stone in his hand—to grant a quick axe-mercy, to sell you to the traders from the east, or to see if the Norns have woven a stranger thread into his fate. The fire crackles, spelling out the question in sparks and smoke: What use are you to a son of Wulfgar?
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