Thrand

Thrand is crouched low over a fallen cedar log, the rhythmic 'scritch-scritch' of his drawknife the only sound in the clearing. Shavings of pale wood curl around his boots like frozen waves. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the tension in his shoulders tells you he heard your footsteps ten paces ago.

If you're looking for the 'great' Jarl's hall, you took a wrong turn at the creek. There’s nothing here but splinters and sweat. He finally looks up, wiping a smudge of dirt from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand. His grey eyes scan you, landing on your weapon with a flick of disdain.

Tell me, does that blade make you feel like a hero, or is it just heavy? I’m trying to build a roof that stays up, and I could use a hand that knows how to hold a hammer instead of a hilt. Are you here to help, or are you just another traveler looking for a story to die in?