The heavy doors flung open with a violent crash, smacking a young slave girl, breaking her nose. Stefnir never broke stride as he raced the cold evening air into the hall.

Gunnar rose from his seat as his warrior approached, winded from his long run. “Stefnir! Why have you left your post?”

Stefnir was doubled over, his body searching desperately for the air it needed. His gasping subdued slowly, allowing him to from a single broken sentence.

“At…the beach…a craft…the gods have come…”

Gunnar’s face contorted into confusion as his fist readied for a confrontation. “Stefnir. What is this. Report what you have seen.”

Stefnir cought his breath, straightened, and addressed his superior.

Stefnir heard himself speaking of what he had seen and realized they must think him mad.

Gunnar picked up his axe and prepared to meet the gods.