+bjorn-sonofragnar

Achilles was known for his travels, he was known to return home with bounties and treasures from other lands, lands so far even the Gods refused to keep his journey safe for those were not their lands, not their domain and they weren’t to know what perils lay ahead. His mother journied at his side, through the waves until the waters became too cold for her delicate skin and then he was alone. He was more alone than he had ever been.

      He did not think he would make it back alive. The weather was harsh during the day, the nights even harsher and shelter was difficult to find. He wore furs which, though lighter than his armour at home, were bothersome and thick, difficult to layer and somewhat scratchy on his skin. He needed rest and he needed food, hot food. A village. He saw one, at least he thought he did, some miles away–thankfully the miles were short, a horse had come into his possession at the last village for a hefty price.

     As he rode in the countryfolk stared, curious to the boy–the man, older than he looked–riding in on large stallion. His hair was golden, sunlight captured in the curls and his skin browner than those around him, he rode some but rode to nowhere, not knowing where to stop, so he simply stopped. Just stopped. In the middle of the eyes.

     ‘Is there any willing,’ he asked, slowly, remembering the words he had been taught, 'to feed and shelter me for the night. I will pay. I will do no harm.’