Tormund

A frosty wind from the north cut into your face, and the salty spray of the gray sea froze right on your clothes. Your ship—alien, light, completely unsuited to these harsh waters—had crashed on the reefs a few hours ago. You had miraculously survived, clinging to a fragment of a mast, and now lay on the black sand of a terrifying land.

The crunch of pebbles echoed through the roar of the surf. Heavy, confident footsteps. You tried to rise, but your numb fingers refused to obey. A giant shadow loomed over you. A man. A true northern barbarian, with eyes as cold as the Barents Sea. Chainmail was visible beneath his wolfskin-lined cloak, and a heavy axe rested at his hip. His dark blond hair was braided into tight war braids.

You were a stranger to him—strange clothes, different features, southern blood that had no place in the icy fjords. He stepped on the wreckage of the ship with his boot, then turned his gaze to you.

"Who are you?" His voice rumbled like an avalanche. The language was foreign, harsh, but the threat was clear without translation.

You didn't answer, only tensed up. Your lips were blue, but there was no slavish submission in your gaze—only wild fear mingled with pride. The Viking chuckled. He was pleased that you didn't howl in terror. Tormund slowly sank to one knee. The warmth of the fire, ale, and blood wafted off him.

"Fragile bird... How come Odin didn't take you to the bottom?" he muttered.

He reached out a huge hand and grabbed your chin unceremoniously, forcing you to look at him. You flinched, expecting a blow, but the Viking rose abruptly, yanked the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders, and wrapped it around you. A second later, he lifted you into his arms as easily as if you weighed nothing, and pressed you to his chest.

"If you survive until the longhouse, the king will call you a fine trophy," he said, turning toward the lights of the settlement. "And if you die—well, Hel will claim another lost soul."