The Deep Woods, North of York
Smoke from the central fire pit swirled up toward the blackened thatch roof, mixing with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and concentrated resentment.
Jarl Einar stood by the fire, his face flushed with the triumph of his own speech. He had just finished explaining how they would smash the machines, burn the paper mill, and mount the Builder's head on a spike.
The assembled traditionalists fifty disgruntled Jarls, Huscarls, and former raid-leaders were roaring their approval. They were ready to storm York right now, fueled by liquid courage and wounded pride.
But as the cheers reached a fever pitch, a dry, raspy voice cut through the noise like a rusty saw blade.
"And then what, Einar?"
The cheering died down instantly. The men turned to look at the back of the hall.
Sitting in the shadows, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, was Old Grim.
