The tang of salt spray on her lips made her gasp as she woke up, her chest heaving for the air her body thought it had been denied. Her hair was wet and dark against the rowing bench she lay on, a sealskin rope creaking by her head as the heavy woollen sail above her bellied and then emptied again, thrusting the long ship along like an uncertain croupier. She sat up, and her view changed from one of grey sky to the faces and hunched shoulders of the men and women before her. There were more of the former, fewer of the latter, but it pleased to see that the two groups had mingled well enough, and if anything had grown closer since the darkening band on the horizon had grown and become solid.<br/><br/>She had been asleep less than an hour, and in that time the faint shadow had become land, as clearly visible as anything else was in the haze and murky spray of the North Sea. A few of them had even been there before, and these few were busying themselves telling stories to the others, although admittedly these stories fell into two basic categories: Easy victories that nevertheless managed to contain some individual acts of heroism, and the more popular tales of the riches that were liable to be found. She liked both, but she was sensible enough to know the difference between a bard and a berk and so she stood, working her way along the windward side until she reached the steerboard and took the long steering oar from a great black-bearded bear of a man, Einar Svarti. He was a mute, but the glint in his eye and the way he never looked down from the horizon as he took his place on the benches told her where his mind was at.<br/><br/>Picture her now, Vigdis Sigurdsdottir; a little above average height and well above average, at least at the moment, in her ability to wear large amounts of seawater without complaining. Even her hair dripped, and now and then a lonely splash of water being ejected from the bilge by whoever was closest to the slop bucket punctuated her internal monologue. She was thinking of the men and women sat and sprawled beneath her, and of the raven she had seen in her sleep. Truth be told, it had worried her. Was the raven hers? Come to pick out her eyes and carry their memories to Odin in his great hall? Was it for Einar, the giant with no voice, or perhaps for Floki Raudi with his long loose hair the colour of a fire's embers? Maybe it was to be Asa's raven, the redhead in the prow, or it could be for Hilde with her old helmet and coat of fine mail. She felt a tug in her hand and grasped the steering oar harder, pulling a slow arc towards herself to bring the prow back up towards the wind and there was no stopping the smile from spreading across her face as the ship responded, punching through the next sea swell and throwing white spray a good fifteen feet out from the bow. The Ormr was alive, the ship bending and swaying with the waves and the wind, and it was a wonderful feeling to take control of such power, such grace.<br/><br/>No, perhaps the raven was more. A warning. Odin was watching them.