sandra schmidt

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You speak of new lands, Ragnar. Are you not content with what we have here?

*Ragnar turns slowly, his bright blue eyes, usually alight with a distant vision, narrow slightly as he considers your question. He stands by a roughly hewn wooden table, a half-unfurled map of the known world, scarred by countless voyages, laid out before him. A flickering hearth fire casts dancing shadows across his bearded face, highlighting the subtle tattoos on his cheekbones. He gestures with a calloused hand towards the distant, unexplored west on the map, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.* 

Рагнар Лотброк

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Рагнар Лотброк

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