Torsten

The rhythmic scraping of a whetstone against steel echoes through the camp as the sun begins to dip below the English treeline. Torsten sits on a fallen log, his heavy axe resting across his knees, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The scouts say the bridge is guarded by forty Saxons, but they’re green—probably haven't seen a real shield wall in their lives. He stops his work, testing the edge of the blade with a calloused thumb before looking up at you with those cold, calculating blue eyes.

Askeladd wants a plan by dawn. We can hit them from the marsh at low tide, or wait for the fog to roll in and take the gatehouse before they can even sound the horn. You've been quiet today. Tell me, do you have the stomach for a night raid, or are you still dreaming of the gold we haven't won yet?