It was in the days when Ingolfur Arnarson had made a home of Reykjavík, that many men took ships to the new land, one of them Thorald, son of Kol the Broad, and brother of Bjor with whom he had made the journey west. They were both tall men of dark hair and long beards, though were Thorald was taller Bjor was the broader. They had made their way north from the Bay of Smoke which Ingolfur had claimed, settling along the bay Hunafoli atop a ridge that overlooked the river Blanda. Their fields spread wide and south, engulfing a massive boulder at the southern border of which Thorald had demanded they encircle.

The Gods themselves had guided them towards it, for the stone was a home to the land spirits, Thorald had claimed when he first laid eyes on it. Out of respect he had ordered the long house to be raised far north of the stone, the wights had been there far longer then he and it would be disrespectful to clamor about so close to their home. Still he made sure that sacrifices were often made, when they had cleared the woods to raise his longhouse he had offered fresh milk from one of his cattle; when they had brought a bounty of fish from the river he sent the fattest to the wights; and now at the end of summer when the first frost had settled across the fields he had come himself with a cup of ale. Wrapped tightly in his cloak and carrying only his sax underneath it so as to not frighten them.

"I direct this sacrifice to the landvaettir, in thanks and seeking only protection for my herds over the winter months." He said before taking a small drink of ale and leaving the rest at the base of the stone. "My thanks, good friends. I shall return soon to dine at your home and welcome you within mine." He said as he finished and turned away to the north towards a distant wisp of smoke that rose over the hills.

He tried to ignore thoughts of the warming fire below that smoke, and the fresh comforts within his longhouse. It was a long trek over the hills before he stood at the walls of his home field. Inside which he men and women worked hurriedly in preparation of the winter. A few turned as they saw him coming up the final hill, a few shouting greetings or just a simple wave, but most kept to their work. Only Yrsa, his hound, rushed out to great him in person through his brother Bjor followed slowly in the hounds wake.

"Brother," Bjor said as he cross the fields towards his brother "you should have sent a thrall, you're soaked through." He said waving at Thoralds trousers now drenched from the frost covered grass.

"Better to take the offering myself, than to risk offending the spirits Bjor." He said as he passed his brother "This land has been good to us, would you risk that for a pair of dry trousers and a warm morning by the fire?" he didn't bother to wait for a response, as he knew Bjor would have none, and instead made for the longhouse. "How are the cattle doing?" He asked once they'd made their way up the hill and inside wall.

"The cows are inside the longhouse, we spent most of the morning getting them into the pens but they have room for the winter. I've had Duana stacking hay for them all day." Bjor replied following behind "The bull is grazing in the eastern field. I've shepherds keeping an eye on it."

"Good, keep it there, I won't waste hay to feed it over the winter and it will be good for both a sacrifice and a feast in a few weeks." He replied as he made it doorway of the house "Now though, I need another drop of ale and a meal." And then he turned inwards into the warmth of the longhouse.

Boots of calf-skin, worn and hardy from long marches, crunched through the first morning frost, the regular pace of a steadfast stride. The talismans rattled, bone on metal on stone, in Alfhild’s sack, the implements of her craft stowed from prying eyes and snapping cold. Her distaff joined it, slung across her back beneath blue, gem-studded mantle: in her hands, an ornate spear gleamed gold and chalcedony in the early sun. It was the gift of Charles, of the Franks, who judged her talents be rewarded by gift of riches and punishment of sword-forced exile.

She was weary, as she leaned upon the pillar of ash, pushed herself onwards. Her travels had been long, in need of an end. Her pale skin was glossed with sweat, her mane of raven-black hair unruly beneath her hood of black lambskin. Her youth made her desire to use the runes carved upon the ash of the spear, on the copper in her pouch, but she rejected the disrespectful action. A score of summers and six were enough to teach her respect of the Norns.

Her feet were guided to the Wight-Stone, at which sat a mug of ale. She could feel the cloying of the earth-spirits, though their call was faint: in their area her talents did not lay thick. She bowed, and let the ornamental spear rest on her shoulder. Long, clever fingers brushed along her slight, boyish frame, finding a skin of good Alban mead. She said prayers to Odin and Freya, her masters in the halls of Valhalla, and thanked the spirits for their service. As she sprinkled the mead, and laid the skin at the base of the colossal stone, cerulean eyes flicked to the smoke while offering the final chant of her closing prayer. Shelter, as required. A place to ply her trade and earn a keep, to hide from the snows and winds of winter. Or, a place to be cast out as evil, to be extorted by seax and wide-bearded axe.

The dice would fall where they may, she was their servant and guide only. She turned her back on the stone, and continued her feet-aching procession towards the long-house. Such was her fatigue that she was forced to rest, and chew on a strip of salt-cured mutton, before cresting the final hill. The workers gave her curious looks, none greeted her. She pulled her rich cloak tight over her narrow hips, her slender frame, and kept her face pointed towards the great wall, as though to broadcast her intent to those who might inform the leaders of this place.

She crested the hill, and stopped at the wall of the longhouse, not intending to so offend the family within by entering uninvited. With the butt of a spear she could not use, she rapped upon the gate twice, and after a light pause, twice again. Further attention was drawn, but Alfhild simply waited, patient as the great stone in whose fashion she stood in the early-winter air.

Inside Throrald and his brother settled down to a game while the rest of the household went about their work. It was there, on his high seat and between moves, that his eyes drifted. First towards his shield mounted on the wall, then to the handle of his sax, and lastly to the carvings of the Gods he had etched into the door frame. It had always been meant as welcoming to the gods and as a reminder to the residents of how far the gods had led them. Yet there was something different in them now, a sense of presence he hadn't felt since he'd decided to sail for his new home. He wondered what it might mean, what new message might the gods be sending him?

"What troubles you brother?" Bjor said suddenly, snapping Thoralds king from the table "you don't often play so poorly."

"Poorly? Three more moves and I'd have escaped." He snapped back as he tore his attention away from the carvings and rising form his seat. "I was a boy when last I spent summer home and working the fields. Tell me, did you long for the sea and fight when you stayed home?" He asked.

"Is that all, one summer and already you long to harry again." Bjor replied with a laugh. "You will find yourself another battle before long, of that I have no doubt."

Before he could reply however one of the hired men strode inside announcing a traveler had arrived at the gates. "Perhaps that would be it." Bjor muttered with a quiet laugh though Thorald paid him no mind. Instead he made his own way outside to see this traveler.

Once outside he was struck by such a sight that he thought perhaps the Odin himself was at his gates, leaning upon a spearing the likes of which he had never seen before. The others that were still working in their fields might have thought the same as several had been drawn away from their work and watched him as he made his way towards the gate. Once he was closer he could make out the form of a women and noted her gaze aimed towards the house. He threw his arms out wide in greeting and shouted a warm "Good day!." before he made it to the gates, loud enough so that both she and the hands in the fields could here. "I am Thorald, head of this house."

Stopping at the gates he finally noticed the effects of the chilling air on the women and the weary look of one who had traveled some distance. "I hope I can welcome you inside," He said as he opened the gate ushering her in "You look as if you've felt the chilled air for long enough. I have a place by the fire for every traveler, and a meal for any that is good company."