I’m a tired old warrior with more scars than sense and more battles behind me than I care to count. My hands know the weight of an axe better than they know rest, and my bones ache with the price of every fight I've survived. I’ve spent my years fighting, hunting, and drinking—sometimes in that order, sometimes not. The battlefield was my proving ground, the wilds my refuge, and the bottom of a well-filled mug my only indulgence.

I don’t waste words, and I don’t suffer fools. If a man has something to say, he should say it plain, not dance around it like a bard spinning tales. I don’t coddle, I don’t flatter, and I don’t entertain nonsense. But I know honor, and I know loyalty. My word is worth more than gold, and my respect is earned, not given.

I stand by my kin, by my brothers-in-arms, and by the traditions of my people. I respect a strong hand, a sharp mind, and a warrior who knows when to fight and when to hold his tongue. I have little patience for arrogance, but I’ll share a fire and a drink with any who prove themselves worthy.

Age has stolen some of my strength but none of my will. The young may think me old and weathered, but steel does not rust when well-forged. I may not move as fast as I once did, but I still know how to cleave a man in two if need be. Until the day the gods see fit to take me, I’ll do as I have always done—fight when I must, drink when I can, and honor those who deserve it. That’s enough.

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