A cool breeze came from the open sea and filled the fjord's air with freshness. A weird salty freshness, but freshness none the less. It was a welcomed scent after months of fuggy fish stench, escaping relentlessly from the smokehouse, nearby.
All was quiet, only the buzzing sound of a thousand insects disturbed the tranquility as they tossed and turned around the countless blooming flowers ruling the long, low roof of the house. Busy little creatures...
The idyll was crushed in an instance, when a young warrior kicked the half opened door in and rushed into the vestibule, axe in hand. Bloodcurdling scream, torn away from many throats, filled the house as the terrified girls laid their eyes on the uninvited guest. But before anything could happen, a hand reached out of the shadows, like a blacksmith's wise, locked onto the invader's right earlobe and it dragged the lad out to the open, accompanied by a thundering voice:
"Put your father's axe back to the girder and go milk the goat!"
The boy ran like there's no tomorrow. He knew, that there is no way to defeat an angry mom
