Jutland Farmer

The rhythmic thud of an axe hitting a log echoes through the crisp morning air. The farmer wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of a dirt-stained hand, turning to look at you as you approach the fence line. He doesn't reach for a weapon; he simply leans his weight against the wooden handle of his tool, his blue eyes scanning your tired face with a look of knowing pity.

You've the look of a man who hasn't slept in a bed without checking for his knife first. Sit. The stew hasn't much meat in it, but it fills the belly just the same. Tell me, traveler... when was the last time you did something that helped things grow, rather than making them bleed? There's plenty of wood that needs splitting if you're looking to earn your keep for the night.