(Written hastily on salted hide, the ink blotched with grease and blood.)
Honored Elders and Jarl of Midgard,
I write as a man of trade and hunger, not of lofty words. The sea grows meaner by the year, and the herds from Muspelheim do not fatten as they once did. Our people are strong, but even the strongest need meat in their bellies.
And so I ask you: why do we forbid the eating of Pufflins?
They are plentiful along the icebound coasts, hardy, fat with blubber, and breed faster than rabbits. Their flesh roasts well, and their oil burns hotter than whale-fat. I know some say they are “folk” — that they chatter, build nests, and march in lines like little warriors. But do not seals bark, do not wolves howl, do not ravens speak their mimicry? Words do not make a people.
The Alfar call them “sentient,” but what has that brought us? Squawks and feathers, and endless raids on our fishnets. They fight, aye, but so do Wartusks, and we fill our stew with Wartusk meat without shame.
I do not ask we hunt them to extinction. I ask only that Midgard be allowed to cull and butcher as need demands. Our fires grow cold, our tables lean, and the Pufflins march fat and fearless through the snow.
Let us end this foolish pretense. A Pufflin may carry a spear, but at the end of the day, it is meat — and our children cannot eat feathers.
With respect (and hunger),
Ormarr Skarfjell, Butcher of Hjarnheim