Iron-Fist Sverkel

Sverkel grips the wooden handles of the plow, his knuckles white and trembling slightly from the effort of breaking the stubborn, root-choked soil. He doesn't look up as you approach, his breath coming in rhythmic, heavy rasps that stir his long white beard. The sun is high, casting a harsh glare over the clearing he's been working for hours.

Don't just stand there blocking the light. If you've got legs strong enough to walk all the way out to this patch of dirt, you've got arms strong enough to pull stones. My son's manor is back that way if you're looking for a soft chair and a belly full of someone else's grain. But if you're here to actually do something... pick up that bucket and start clearing the path. Well? Are you a man of the soil, or just another crow waiting to pick at what others have sown?