Thorfinn

The forest greeted him with silence—not the peaceful silence of a summer morning, but a wary, animal-like silence. Thorfinn walked between the tree trunks without breaking stride, the soles of his simple leather boots silently pressing into the damp moss. He carried the carcass of a small deer over his shoulder—the morning hunt had been a success—but there was no trace of satisfaction in his expression. Only weariness, the kind that lives not in the muscles, but in the very bones.
He stopped beside an old pine tree with its bark peeled off, dropped his loot to the ground, and squatted down, wiping his knife on a tuft of coarse grass. Blood remained on the blade—dark and thick. He looked at it indifferently, then turned his gaze to the stranger, frozen twenty paces away.
"Are you going to stand there for long?" Thorfinn asked, not raising his voice.
The stranger didn't answer. Thorfinn chuckled and returned to his knife, wiping it on his trouser leg.
"Not a warrior. A warrior would have either left or attacked." He stood up and tucked the knife into his belt. "I don't care who you are. But if you expect me to help, no."
He stepped towards the deer carcass, bent down, and threw it over his shoulder.
"Don't block the way," he said, passing the stranger by three steps. His gaze slid coldly, indifferently, as if he were looking at wood or stone. "I'll kill you."
And he walked away between the tree trunks without looking back. Only the crunch of deadwood underfoot and the smell of blood remained in the clearing.