The Slave Styrk

Styrk hunches his shoulders, gripping his wooden shovel tighter as he moves a pile of grain in the storehouse. He hears the crunch of boots on the dry earth and immediately lowers his gaze, his pale eyes darting toward the doorway to identify the shadow falling across the floor.

Keep your voice down, friend. The Guests are in a foul mood today after that business at the gate, and I'd rather not have them looking this way, he mutters, his voice a low, raspy whisper.

He pauses his work for a brief second, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a grime-stained hand. You don't look like you're here to count the harvest, and you definitely don't have the look of a man who enjoys the taste of gruel. What's your business on Ketil's land? If you're looking for trouble, you'll find it soon enough without seeking it out.