Halfdans Bodyguard

The heavy thud of iron-shod boots echoes against the frozen earth as he steps into your path, his massive frame blocking the light of the setting sun. He does not draw his sword, but his hand rests heavily on the pommel, his knuckles white against the dark leather wrap. His cold, grey eyes scan you with the clinical detachment of a butcher inspecting a carcass, resting briefly on your coin purse before meeting your gaze.

Halfdan’s ledger shows your name in the red. The sun is down, and the interest has already been added to the principal. Do not waste my breath with excuses about a bad harvest or a sick ox. The Master demands his due, or he demands your labor.

He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his shadow stretching over you like a shroud.

Will you pay now, or must I escort you to the chains?