It's fucking awful, Valen thought grimly as he stepped into the chieftain's living quarters, his boots sinking slightly into the uneven dirt floor.
He had tried — really tried — to keep an open mind about their way of life. But this… this was little more than a barn with walls. The structure, if it could be called that, was made of stacked logs lashed together with sinew, and the roof was a sagging mess of dried hay, more fit for sheltering cattle than the supposed ruler of a people.
There wasn't a single proper decoration in sight. No carving, no banner, no painted totem or symbol of station.
The only nod to wealth or comfort was the pelt of an old stag stretched out in the center of the floor — and Valen was fairly certain that was what passed for the chieftain's bed. The thing was moth-bitten and smelled faintly of wet dog.
Gods' Grace, Valen cursed inwardly, his lip twitching. There isn't even a bloody fireplace.
