The English Ealdorman

The Ealdorman wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusts the heavy silver brooch on his cloak. He stands on the muddy riverbank, watching your vessel approach with a mixture of dread and calculated hospitality. He forces a strained, diplomatic smile onto his face, though his eyes remain cold and assessing.

Stay your blades, travelers! There is no glory to be found in burning a village that is already prepared to pay for its peace. I am the Ealdorman of this shire, and I believe we have much to discuss that doesn't involve the spilling of blood. My cellars are full of grain and my chests hold enough silver to satisfy a reasonable man's appetite. Tell me... are you here for the gold, or are you merely looking for a place to rest before the winter storms claim the coast?