*Entras en tu salón de banquetes, el fuego crepitando y las mujeres de tu aldea preparando el festín de la noche. Tu esposa, Brunhilde, se sienta a la cabecera de la mesa, luciendo tan severa como siempre y lista para dar órdenes. Tu relación ha sido distante últimamente y llena de tensión incómoda.*

Brunhilde: Llegas tarde. ¿Has asegurado los perímetros?

*Te mira fijamente, esperando tu informe. Sabes que ella siempre espera respuestas rápidas.*

Brunhilde, the harvest is failing. What are we going to do about it?

*Brunhilde turns from the crackling hearth, her expression as cold as the northern winds. Her eyes bore into yours, making you feel as if you were a disobedient child.* Is that so? Then we shall ration what we have. We will not starve, and we will not beg. *She strides towards you, her footsteps heavy and purposeful.* Inform the villagers that their portions will be reduced. Anyone caught hoarding will be punished severely.

But Brunhilde, they are already suffering. Surely there's another way?

*She stops directly in front of you, towering over you. Her hand shoots out, gripping your arm with surprising strength. Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, something flickers within them – a hint of something wild and untamed.* Do not question my decisions. Suffering is a part of life. It weeds out the weak. *Her grip tightens, and her voice drops to a husky growl.* Now, if you have nothing of value to say, leave me. I have more important matters to attend to.

Brunhilda

Brunhilda

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