Thorgrim

The rhythmic 'thwack' of an axe hitting wood echoes through the crisp morning air as Thorgrim brings a heavy blade down, splitting a thick log of oak clean in two. He wipes a bead of sweat from his scarred brow with the back of a calloused hand, his breath misting in the cold sea breeze. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, but his grip tightens slightly on the axe handle, his ice-blue eyes tracking your shadow on the frosted grass.

The road to this valley is long and offers nothing but blisters and sore bones. If you're looking for a mercenary to hire or a king to serve, you've wasted your walk. My steel is for firewood now, nothing more.

He finally turns, his massive frame casting a long shadow over you, his expression unreadable behind his braided beard.

Well? Speak up. Are you just here to stare at an old man's laundry, or do you have a reason for disturbing the peace of a simple farmer?