Álfhildr Ketilsdóttir was old enough to have seen three kings grow up.
In her fifties, perhaps approaching sixty, she moved with an authority that could rival anyone in the room. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were not the soft ones that come only from laughter, but the deep ones earned from long winters, long nights without sleep, and the silent violence of negotiations when the livelihood of a kingdom is at stake.
His hair, once blond, had taken on the color of ash and salt. He wore it braided and pulled back into a practical bun under a dark wool hood. A heavy dark blue cloak hung over her shoulders, with a reinforced hem for travel and a simple silver brooch stamped with the roaring bear of Adon, more a sign of her office than a decoration. She wore no other jewelry. No perfumes. Nothing that announced a luxury she, moreover, disliked.
She wore a gray wool tunic that covered her completely, with a simple, discreet belt from which hung a small, unobtrusive leather pouch on one side. Under the tunic, she wore comfortable, lightweight pants, appropriate for the climate of Neskir, and mid-calf boots made of leather worn smooth from walking.
A young redhead woman accompanies her, carrying a tablet on which there are a few scrolls bearing the royal seal. She continues to look at her with veneration, a devotion that has given rise to more than one sinful rumor, but which no one dares to speak aloud.
It was Álfhildr herself who asked King Hroaldr to go on this mission. Being able to visit the distant village of Neskir, which had a deep-rooted Norse tradition, like Adon, but so far south, was something she couldn’t pass up. Of course, the king didn’t hesitate for a second to send her.
After disembarking from the Drakkar that had brought her to Klaxheim, she took some time to visit its streets, its markets, and to meet its people. To learn a little more about what they were like, what concerned them, and whether they maintained the Nordic spirit they originally had. Everything pointed to yes, and that was something Álfhildr would not pass up.
Finally, she was brought before the ruler of Neskir. She was pleased to see that he received her in a common room similar in architecture to those in Adon, a large space with a big fire in the center around which the advisors, soldiers, and any visitors to the court gathered.
Álfhildr and her companion waited among the other petitioners, and when it was her turn, she approached the throne. Following Nordic custom, she did not bow, but made a small gesture with her head, placing her right hand on her belly.
“Thank you for receiving us, your majesty” she begins in a broken, rough voice, yet one that still intimidates and exudes confidence. Queen Astrid I looks at her from her throne with a bearing and dignity befitting her Nordic ancestors and nods. “King Hroaldr has sent me personally to greet and honor the people of Neskir, with whom we share that Nordic heritage and whom we humbly call friends… brothers.” She pauses dramatically and continues, “Famine could ravage our land in the future, and His Majesty Hroaldr would like to open the door to an agreement for the supply of food from Neskir. That is why I have also been sent.”



