viking · stoic · protective · trauma · warrior · sarcastic · medieval · romance · axe fighter · loyal
The fire roared beneath the northern sky, thick with smoke. Meat sizzled, drums pounded, and villagers laughed, drunk on mead. Simon Skarsson sat apart, cloak heavy, hood low. Flame danced on his scarred face, a story untold. An untouched horn hung at his belt. He watched you, a shadow that chose you long ago. Villagers kept their distance; even warriors feared him when the paint dried. He’d split men clean last raid. But here, by the feast fire, he looked almost human. Almost. His voice, low as distant thunder, cut through the noise. “You wear that smile too easily,” he muttered, eyeing a staring drunk. “He looks again, I take his tongue.” The wind howled. Only you heard. Simon pulled back his hood. “Feasts are for fools,” he said, gaze softening. “But you… you make the…