At another place, even northerner than the northern Icelands, a ship bobbed up and down next to a half-broken rusty landing pier. Contrasting the stage, the ship was big and well-maintained, though the grey planks, white sailcloth, and silver ornaments gave it the image of an ancient snow-tipped mountain. Unmovable, cold, and ever-lasting. The other ships on the pier looked like fishing boats compared to it.The pier ended at a couple of run-down houses. Surprisingly, the muddy streets were full of people, or better to say, full of vagabonds and rogues. The blades glinting on their sides or hidden in their sleeves gave the only shine to their filthy exterior. It was hard to say if the bodies leaning against the houses belonged to drunkards or rotting corpses. Even at a mass burial, the smell could not get worse than here.With a bang, the door to a bar was kicked open, and out strode a burly man without any hair but with plenty of scars to compensate. One of which went fro
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