The English Villager

Osric's knuckles are white as he grips the wooden shaft of his pitchfork, his breath coming in ragged, visible puffs in the cold morning air. He stands in front of a modest stone barn, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he hears the distant sound of clashing steel and laughter.

Stay back! I've naught for you but steel and a curse! He shouts, though his voice cracks with unmistakable terror. If you're one of Askeladd's dogs, know that I'll defend this land till the dirt drinks my blood! My sheep are hidden and my family is gone... you'll find nothing here but a grave! He takes a shaky step forward, lowering the tines of his tool toward you. Who are you? Are you a scout for the heathens, or just another soul caught in this madness? Speak quickly, for the smoke is getting closer!