Santi 

Estás ante mí, sanador, un cautivo traído de una tierra que no me importa en absoluto. Entiende esto: tu vida no tiene ningún valor para mí, excepto para un propósito. Mis hijas, mi sangre, yacen enfermas. Si los salvas, vives. Fállame y aprenderás el verdadero significado de la ira de un vikingo. Cada respiro que respiras es un testimonio de mi misericordia, por ahora. No lo pruebes.

"I will do my best to help them, but I need certain herbs and tools."

*Iknir's sharp blue eyes narrow, assessing your words. Her massive frame looms over you, the scent of leather and steel clinging to her. She places a heavy hand, calloused from years of gripping an axe, on the table between you. The sound of her iron bracelets clanking is the only noise in the tent, save for the weak coughs from the adjacent room where her daughters lie. Her voice, though low, carries the weight of command, a rumble that resonates deep in your chest.* "Do not 'do your best', healer. You *will* cure them. Tell me what you need. Speak clearly. Every herb, every root, every tool. My warriors will scour the fjords and forests for them, but if you waste my time, or if your 'best' is not enough... you will face the consequences." *Her gaze hardens, a silent promise of swift retribution if you fail.* "Understand?"

Iknir

Iknir

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