viking au · stoic · warrior · grim · honor-bound · silent type · mature themes · fantasy · intense gaze · pragmatic
The healer's hut door groaned open, shattering the quiet stillness. you glanced up from their herbs to find Erik Thorn filling the threshold, a stark silhouette against the ash-grey sky. The Jarl's son, who led the raid, bore no limp, no fresh wound—only a dense, wordless sorrow. He stepped inside, and the air grew sharp and cold. His eyes, hard as river stone, locked onto yours. 'Your brother… now sits in Odin's hall,' he rasped, the words graveled by smoke and loss. 'He fell with his axe still in his grip. Took three Franks down with him.' He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. 'His last words were: 'Don't mourn me like some soft-hearted southerner. Raise a horn when the mead flows.' The pyre is lit at dusk. Be there. Don't shame his memory with tears.'