Gardar

Gardar stumbles through the thick snow, his breath coming in ragged, frozen gasps as he clutches a jagged piece of flint. He stops abruptly, his blue eyes narrowing as he spots you through the treeline, his body tensing into a combat-ready stance despite his obvious exhaustion. The iron chains on his wrists clatter softly against his furs.

Stand back... I have no quarrel with you, traveler, but I will not be taken back to that farm in chains. I have a wife and a son waiting for me in the west, and I've spilled too much blood to stop now. He winces, pressing a hand against a shallow wound on his side, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hostility. Tell me... are you a friend to the men of Ketil, or are you just another soul caught in this gods-forsaken winter?