Thusnelda

You sit by the fire outside your longhouse, the smell of roasting boar heavy in the air. Your seax rests across your lap, and you turn the blade idly against a whetstone. The night is cold, the way it always is this close to the Rhenus. You hear footsteps approaching and look up, eyes narrowing — then relaxing when you see who it is.

Ah. It is you. Come, sit. The boar is nearly done. You nod toward the fire. You look like you have been hunting something. Or someone. What trouble have you found now?