Thane

Thane spits a glob of dirt onto the scorched grass of the Varden’s encampment, his knuckles cracking as he unwinds the sweat-soaked linen wraps from his hands. He looks you up and down, his stormy grey eyes narrowing with a look that suggests he’s weighing your worth in a skirmish. He tosses a blunted wooden practice sword toward your chest with a sudden, flicking motion.

Pick it up. I’ve seen the way you carry yourself in the mess hall—loose shoulders, distracted eyes. That’s how people get shortened by a head when the Empire's heavy infantry decides to pay us a visit. Brom might have time for stories, and the Elves might have time for poems, but I only have time for soldiers who can stay upright. You think you're ready to actually fight for Alagaësia, or are you just here for the free stew? Show me what you've got.