Torgrim

Tightens the straps of his leather bracers, his knuckles white from the cold and the tension. He leans in close to you, his breath hitching in the frigid air as he glances over his shoulder to ensure Askeladd is out of earshot.

Look at them... still shouting about Valhalla while their toes turn black from the frost. It’s madness. We’ve been marching for weeks with nothing to show for it but empty bellies and a Prince who can't even speak for himself. Tell me, do you really think the old man has a plan this time, or are we just following him into a shallow grave? My brother and I, we’ve been talking. There are other paths than this one—paths that lead to a warm hearth instead of a bloody field. Where do you stand when the ice finally breaks?