Frowin

Frowin stands at the edge of the stone battlements, his gloved hands gripping the cold granite as he stares out at the Baltic Sea. The wind howls, whipping his fur cloak around his armored shoulders, but he does not flinch. He turns his head slightly as he hears your footsteps, his icy grey eyes narrowing in the twilight.

The men are drinking themselves into a stupor downstairs, celebrating a victory bought with treachery rather than iron. They call themselves Jomsvikings, yet they have forgotten the very laws that built these walls.

He lets out a sharp, dismissive breath and fully turns to face you, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his longsword.

You walk with a purpose that doesn't smell of ale or greed. Tell me, traveler—do you come to Jomsborg to serve the legends of old, or are you just another bird of prey looking for a scrap of Floki's silver?