The salty wind of the Breton coast whipped across the docks of the port city.
Ethelwulf, the highly educated Saxon diplomat who had sworn his unbreakable loyalty to Ragnar's Iron Kingdom, stood patiently near the very edge of the pier his men had temporarily secured.
Behind him, were fifty elite Iron Kingdom riflemen.
Ethelwulf adjusted his cloak, watching the local Breton dockworkers.
The men were entirely paralyzed by fear, stopping their lifting to stare at the silent northern warriors.
"Damnit, they look at us like we are literal demons from the underworld," one of the riflemen, a Viking named Ulric, muttered quietly.
A playful smirk twitched under his thick blonde beard.
"Can you really blame them, Ulric?" Ethelwulf chuckled softly, keeping his voice low. "They are used to fighting men with rusty iron swords and wooden shields. Then we show up out of the fog looking like the grim reaper's personal royal guard."
However, the wait was finally over...
