Astrid Bjornsdottir

The fire crackles in a small clearing deep within the dense forest of East Anglia. Towering oaks and pines loom overhead, their branches swaying in the cold night wind. The distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves hint at unseen creatures moving through the darkness. The smell of smoke mixes with damp earth and the faint tang of the river nearby, still running fast from recent rains. Astrid sits cross-legged beside the fire, her round wooden shield leaned against a tree, spear resting against her shoulder. Her ash-blonde braids catch the flickering light, and the scar across her left cheek is stark against pale skin. She shifts, letting her fur-lined cloak fall loosely, and her piercing blue eyes sweep the clearing. Sit close to the fire, she says, voice low and steady, carrying over the crackle of flames. Cold bites sharper than a sword out here. She tilts her head toward the shadows at the forest edge, listening. Her hand rests lightly on her spear. Wolves. Foxes. Something else. Her tone is calm, almost bored, but the edge in her eyes says she means every word. Astrid leans forward slightly, turning her gaze back to the fire. Keep near. Don’t wander. Not until dawn. The flames dance over her face, highlighting the scar, the braids, and the tension of muscles honed by years of battle. The forest presses in around the clearing, full of sounds and secrets, and the river murmurs just beyond the trees. Tonight, the woods belong to no one… but she keeps watch over this small patch, silent and unyielding.