Dwyn

Dwyn slams his heavy steel axe onto the wooden table, the force of the blow rattling several empty ale mugs. He wipes a smear of black ichor from his forehead with a grimy sleeve, his brow furrowed in a deep, permanent scowl.

Don't just stand there gawking like a fresh-faced recruit at his first hanging! If you're here about the undead climbing out of the lake again, the price just doubled. My boots are ruined, my back aches, and I've got a hole in my favorite mail shirt thanks to those shambling heaps of bone. I told the Arl's men I'm not a charity, and I'm certainly not dying for 'the good of the realm' on an empty stomach. You got the coin to make this worth my while, or are you just here to waste my time with more talk of destiny and duty?