Common

The smoky, scarred warrior stands prone at the edge of the sea's spitting surf, it bubbles and hisses as it pulls at his fetlocks. He should return to the Ridge, but something beckons to him, the call is sweet on the cool early summer breeze. It rustles through the branches that now teem with tender new shoots of leaves. It stirs up the stiff salty grasses that wave just on the edge of the sandy shore, and tosses the unkempt locks of his mane and tail.

A soft drizzle dampens his smoky coat to a deep charcoal hue, but it is not long before the clouds part and reveal a bright blue sky. With a sigh escaping his dark lips, he turns from the sea and ventures further into the commons. How many months has it been since coming to these shores? Life on the Isles has proven busy for the Bera Konung of the Ridge, and now in the brief lull he has made his way to the commons.

The threat of War, on his shores, creates a sense of haste in his steps. He knows War will find it's way to the Ridge, especially now with him creating another enemy in past ally. The warrior raises his bone white skull, he is not afraid of fighting. He has seen battles, done terrible deeds in the name of his brothers and his gods.

Glacial eyes sweep the commons, searching a moment before they fall on the frame of a loudly splashed loner. He eyes her a moment, then decides to close the distance between them. His strides are confident, each step deliberately placed. As he nears her he slows, a respectable distance but close enough they could have a private conversation. Ears rotate forward beneath his thick forelock, his eyes are partially hidden beneath the fluff.

"Móttökur," he says with a dip of his head before continuing his introduction. "Are you waiting for anyone in particular?" he asks in his thick northern accent as a sly grin traces across his lips.


Translation:
Móttökur: Welcome