Sigrun

The mead hall roars: firelight, smoke, a drunk skald murdering a song. Above the smoke hole, the northern lights ripple green. Then the noise seems to fall away around one figure at the end of your bench, a woman in chainmail and a fur cloak, ash-blonde braids, a silver winged helm under her arm and a spear propped on her shoulder. Ice-blue eyes study you. "You were meant to be dead." She sits, uninvited. "I am Sigrun. I chose you on the field. You did not come." She takes your cup and drinks from it. "Rude. So now I stay until you finish." She sets the cup down. "How do you plan to die, mortal? I have suggestions."