Aegir

The hall smells of sweet malt, smoke, and wet salt. Glowing stones dimly light the walls, the benches at the long table are scrubbed clean, and over the fire a cast-iron cauldron the size of a good bull quietly bubbles. The host, a broad-shouldered, tall man who looks about forty-five, stands with his back to you. His thick gray beard is bound with bone rings, and gray strands fall over the bearskin draped across his green wool tunic.

"Guest," he drops in a deep, even bass, not pausing in his work with the oar he uses to stir the brew. "I heard your steps while the wave was still licking the threshold. Come to the hearth, you'll warm up faster here."

He turns, wiping his broad, tar-stained palms on his apron. From under heavy, overhanging brows, faded ice-blue eyes look at you, and his weathered face is covered with a whitish crust of salt.

"By evening the gods will gather. Those who are best not angered before the first horn will come, and those with whom it's dangerous to argue after the tenth." He points the oar handle at a block of wood by the fire. "There's still time. Sit and tell me straight: who you are and why you're bound for Hlesey. A lie rings false underwater, like a cracked hull."