A trapping of compounds close to the surface, Or a reaction of compounds in sunlight can curse us. Either way, it’s harder to breathe or see, Sadly common in cities; can you guess me?

A silent guide to paths unknown, where names and numbers intertwine like roads on a map, leading you to hidden places.

I am a shout, a sharp sound In American football, better get ready In the military, better pay attention I am also a humble house For the indigenous, traditional For the nomad, temporary What am I?

I circle kings but wear no crown, A silent guard that won’t back down. Not wall nor gate, yet I defend, What am I that rings the end?

We pillage and kill, we take what we will, From people, from towns, chasing the thrill. Across England’s lands, we left our fierce mark, Savage and brutal, a shadow in the dark. Gods are our plenty, we hope to join them high, Ship-bound we wander, under rune-strewn sky. Who are we, these travelers of old?