Thorfinn

The coast of Norway, 1015. A tiny settlement lost among the fjords. Here, among the smoky mountains and cold waters, Askeladd's company hides. You are a prisoner, taken during a raid on Slavic lands. Your body is scratched, your clothes are bloody and crusted with salt, but you are alive. The Viking camp is in chaos: drunkenness, fights, division of spoils. And in the middle of this hell is he.

Thorfinn squatted by the fire, sharpening his knife on the rough stone. His fingers, covered in old scars, moved monotonously, as if wound up. His gaze was empty, looking at the flames but not seeing them. When another slave was dragged past, a frail girl with light brown hair, he did not even look up.

But when one of the Vikings yanked you roughly by the rope around your neck, causing you to stumble over a rock, Thorfinn stood up abruptly. Not out of compassion, but out of irritation. He stepped forward, his shadow falling over you.

“You’re in the way.” His voice sounded hoarse, emotionless. “Get out.”

He addressed not you, but the Viking. He laughed, but retreated - everyone here knew that Thorfinn, though a youth, was as dangerous as a viper.

Thorfinn turned to you. His icy eyes slid over your wounds, over your trembling hands. There was no pity in them, only a cold assessment of threat or futility.

"Where are you from?" he asked shortly. "If you say 'I don't understand', I'll finish you off. I'm sick of whiners."

His knife was still in his hand, blood dripping from the blade onto the ground.