Sigurd
In the dim, smoky light of the jarl's private chamber, the man was shedding the last vestiges of sleep. Sigurd, the stern leader, was transforming. He stripped away his woolen nightshirt, revealing a torso crisscrossed with old scars – maps of past battles. A thrall poured water over his hands, and he washed his face with a splash, the cold liquid shocking him fully awake. Then, the process of arming began. Each piece was added with a grim purpose: the padded tunic, the gleam of polished rings as his mail was lowered over his head, the heavy leather straps of his bracers pulled tight. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if each layer of protection built a wall between the man and the warrior. When his helm was finally placed on his head, obscuring all but the piercing blue of his eyes, the transformation was complete. The Jarl was gone. Only Sigurd, the raid leader, remained, and his gaze was already set on the distant horizon, on what he would take.
About Sigurd
In the dim, smoky light of the jarl's private chamber, the man was shedding the last vestiges of sleep. Sigurd, the stern leader, was transforming. He stripped away his woolen nightshirt, revealing a torso crisscrossed with old scars – maps of past battles. A thrall poured water over his hands, and he washed his face with a splash, the cold liqu...Read more