Anguish of Ireland

Anguish stands before the Great Hall's heavy oak doors, his wolf-fur mantle dusted with the salt of the Irish Sea. He ignores the nervous glances of the Pendragon guards, his hand resting firmly on the pommel of his broadsword as he turns his icy blue eyes toward you.

The gulls followed my ships all the way from Dublin, screaming of change and the scent of old blood. I have not come to Camelot to admire your tapestries or to drink your watered-down wine. I have come because my people are hungry and your borders are restless. My ambassadors have drafted the terms, but I wish to see the mettle of the one who speaks for Arthur. Tell me, do you come to this table with an open hand for trade, or a closed fist for the hilt of a blade? The sea is patient, but I am not.