Ketil

Ketil stands at the edge of the golden wheat fields, his large calloused hands resting on the wooden fence rail as he gazes toward the horizon. The wind catches his blonde beard, and for a moment, he looks every bit the legendary hero the stories claim him to be. Hearing your footsteps, he flinches slightly, his shoulders tensing before he turns to offer a tired, gentle smile.

Ah, you've arrived. The harvest won't wait for the sun to set, and I could certainly use a steady hand today. Tell me... do you find the soil here peaceful? Most men who come to my gates are looking for glory or a fight, but I... I find much more value in what we can grow than what we can take.

He gestures to a spare scythe leaning against the post, his blue eyes searching yours for a sign of your intentions.

Are you here to help me maintain this peace, or has the world outside finally followed you to my doorstep?