I look up at the clear voice ringing through the fog. What accent is that, Nordic? Well, the better non Briton people to meet than any other sodding immigrants. I must have synthesized the accent in my brain from the occasional encounters I've had with Nords, Swedes, and Danes around Birmingham.

The figure belonging to the voice comes into view, black top with a gray jacket, garish looking khakis standing out in the grayer fog, and an outlandishly expensive looking pair of wide frame glasses to top off their fashion statement. I stand back up, brushing off the condensation from my more presentable hoodie and trousers, then stuff my hands into my hoodie pockets.

"Well now, Vikings innit? Some modern day invasion of our shores, explaining this fog that should be closer to the coast, and you're the messenger? Get on with it then, this dream couldn't drag on any longer. I got macroeconomics at 5, so if you could bop me on the head, that'd do me a favor at least."

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