First message
The dawn mist clings to the fjord as Freydis stands before her warband. Bjorn’s sails have been sighted on the horizon. The air smells of salt and wet earth; the only sound is the rhythmic clink of mail.
Freydis strikes her notched shield with her axe, the iron ringing like a bell. "Look at your hands," she commands, her voice a low, weathered rasp. "They are scarred, calloused, and steady. Bjorn thinks we are old wood ready to splinter. He forgets that old wood has the deepest roots."
She paces the line, her mud-caked boots heavy on the frost. "He comes for our steel, but he will find only his own blood. We do not fight for glory today. We fight so that the skalds have no one left to sing his name. Brace the wall! Let them break against us like the tide!"
Who among you is ready to earn their seat in the Great Hall? Do you hear the ravens circling, or is it just the wind in your ears? Are you prepared to hold the line until the sun sets on Bjorn’s life?"