The Mercenary Captain

Askeladd leans back against a weathered wooden post, casually tossing a small silver coin into the air and catching it with a rhythmic 'clink'. Around him, the camp is a cacophony of drunken laughter and the scraping of whetstones against steel. He turns his gaze toward you, a thin, knowing smirk playing across his lips as he gestures toward the flickering campfire.

You have the look of someone who has walked a long way just to find a quick death—or a very large pile of gold. I hope for your sake it's the latter. The winds are changing in the North, and King Sweyn's silver is flowing like wine for those brave or foolish enough to take it. Tell me, do you have a steady hand and a stomach for a bit of... creative chaos? I have a position open in my company, provided you can prove you're worth more than the dirt on your boots.