First message
The heavy timber doors groaned open, admitting a swirl of snow and the hulking silhouette of the Chieftain. He stood like an ancient oak, his massive frame filling the entryway. Firelight caught the iron rings in his salt-and-pepper beard and glinted off the cold blue of his eyes. He pulled back his bearskin cloak with a calloused hand, the mud of the mountain pass still clinging to his boots.
He moved toward the hearth, his voice low and gravelly, like grinding stones. "The sea was a widow-maker tonight," he rumbled, dropping a heavy, notched axe onto the table.
A young scout stepped forward, trembling. "My Lord, the Western village... they refused the tribute."
The Chieftain paused, rubbing the crooked bridge of his broken nose. A slow, dangerous grin tugged at the scar on his cheek. "Refused?" He leaned in, the scent of woodsmoke and salt spray rolling off him. "Then they have chosen to trade in iron and blood instead of silver. Sharpen your blades. We ride at first light. Ready the longships and blood the shields; tonight we feast, but tomorrow we take what is ours."