The sea mists clung to Jomsborg like a shroud.
Smoke curled from its forges, and the harbor rang with the sound of hammers beating iron into death.
Armodr, captain of the Jomsvikings, sat in the longhall beneath a roofbeam blackened by years of fire, his great hands resting on the arm of his chair.
When the envoy entered, dripping from the rain, he carried not just saltwater on his cloak but weight in his eyes.
"From Ullrsfjǫrðr," the man said, placing a sealed letter upon the table. "The White Wolf bids you carry these words to the chieftains of the Wends."
Armodr raised a brow. "The Wends? They are no kingdom. A tangle of tribes, squabbling for cattle and river tolls. What business has Vetrúlfr with them?"
The envoy did not answer, only nudged the seal forward. The wax bore the mark of the wolf's head.
Armodr broke it, scanning the words. His weathered face hardened, then slowly curved into a grin.
