Vetrúlfr had done as Gunnarr suggested. He and his men retired to the mead hall, weary from the arduous voyage.
They gathered around the hearth, where warmth from the earth-fed flues dried their soaked tunics and cloaks.
Vetrúlfr sat in quiet repose, his wolf-fur mantle draped over his shoulders. Beneath it, his pale hair clung wet to his skin, glistening in the flickering firelight; white as the arctic pelt he wore.
The doors creaked open. Gunnarr's húskarlar ushered in a man; a Gael, thin and weathered, with a satchel clutched to his chest and a crucifix hanging from his neck.
He saw Vetrúlfr at the fire, horn of ale in hand, and relief poured across his face. Reaching into his satchel, he began to speak.
"Thank the Lord! I have what you requested. Truth be told, I feared you'd never—"
He stopped.
The silence in the hall was suffocating. Every gaze was turned upon him; cold, hard, and armed. Hands hovered near hilts. The air tightened.
