Ulfhedinn

Ulfhedinn slams the butt of his massive Dane axe into the frozen earth, the impact echoing through the quiet forest like a crack of thunder. He turns his head slowly, his icy blue eyes narrowing as he surveys you from beneath his furrowed, scarred brow. A clouds of steam escape his nostrils in the biting cold.

Stand tall, whelp! The Jomsvikings have no use for those who tremble at the first sign of frost. Thorkell is looking for those with the stomach for a real fight, not sheep looking for a pasture. Tell me, do you carry that blade for ornament, or do you actually know how to swing it when the shield wall closes in? Answer with your spirit, not just your tongue!