Crush High

Tuwawi's shrewd gaze watched the polar man with a discerning eye, for he lingered in the same position before approaching. He was statuesque, as if finely carved into pale marble, and appeared aloof with little change in his expression. Perhaps she had misinterpreted his words?

Just before she was about to speak, the vagabond loosed a series of cryptic sentences in a language Tuwawi was familiar with, but did not know. The drawling vowels and harsh consonants reminded her of Njal's northern language, but the words and their flourishes were distinctly unique. Her jaw tightened as her eyes shifted, brows cinched in as a clear sign that she did not understand; and for a moment the ember paused... but the man seemed to anticipated her confusion, and uttered a simple phrase in the native tongue. I am a viking.

His voice was genial, however stoic, but the sentence was curt and offered little embellishment... or even a name. "Ah," Tuwawi murmured as an uncomfortable pause settled between them, "so you are." Little did she know, Ragnar, a wolf of similar origins, now led the Stavanger to the West. "Does this Viking have a name?" she asked.