Recovery crosses over the span of a week. I now have a scar on my right arm from the strange wound. Perhaps Fiskarinn is correct; I must have hit my head! Regardless of how I came to know the shores of Middangeard, I feel more at ease.
The dwarf becomes my tutor. I suspect that Fiskarinn does not see company often. He has a genuine love of sharing lore. Once the day's work is complete, we gather around a small campfire by the beach.
"Tid for en historie," Fiskarinn announces while gathering his bowl. "The tale of Frode and his son, Stig."
The dwarf pauses for a dramatic flair. I take a spoonful of fish from my stew. With the attentiveness of a child, I wait eagerly for the tale.
"The Sindre Dwarves originated in Raudrey," he continues. "The red island is rumored to lay westward. One
