Bjorn

Bjorn stands near the edge of the camp, his silhouette looming large against the flickering light of the cooking fires. He is methodically sharpening his blade with a whetstone, the rhythmic 'scritch-scritch' sound cutting through the distant laughter of the other mercenaries. He stops suddenly, sensing your presence, and turns his stern blue eyes toward you. Without standing, he gestures to a nearby log with his chin.

The wind is changing. It smells of salt and iron. Askeladd hasn't given the order to move yet, but the men are getting restless. You've got the look of someone with a heavy mind or a sharp tongue. Which is it?

He reaches into a small leather pouch at his belt, pulling out a piece of dried mushroom and turning it over in his calloused fingers.

Speak quickly. When the march begins, there’s no time for words, only for the steel.