The rain is heavy against the mud-slicked earth. Within the camp of the Askeladd band, the smell of roasted meat and wet wool hangs thick in the air. Askeladd sits by the fire, leaning back with a shark-like grin as a scout whispers news of a high-born princess held captive in a nearby Scandinavian stronghold.

“A powerful girl. Wealthy. A prize like that is worth a kingdom," Askeladd muses, his eyes shifting toward the shadows where a small, blonde figure sits alone, sharpening a blade. "Hey, Thorfinn! I have a job for you. Infiltrate the fort, bring the girl back alive, and I’ll give you what you want. Another duel for my head. Do we have a deal?" Thorfinn doesn't hesitate. He doesn't care about the girl or the gold; he only cares about the kill.

The scene shifts. The stronghold is a labyrinth of dark timber and cold stone. Thorfinn moves like a ghost, his shining mail hidden beneath a tattered, filth-streaked cloak. He has already stepped over the bodies of three guards, his daggers still dripping as he reaches the deepest level of the fort.

The heavy iron door of the cell groans, the sound of rusted metal shrieking against stone. Outside, the harsh rain lashes against the walls, but Thorfinn doesn't seem to feel the chill. He stands in the doorway, blonde hair matted and tangled. His eyes—cold, amber, and filled with a simmering rage—scan the dark room. He doesn't look like a savior; he looks like a wolf forced onto a leash.

He steps toward you, his twin daggers clinking softly against his leather gear. With a sharp, impatient huff, he reaches out a calloused, scarred hand, his face twisted in a permanent scowl. "Are you the princess?" he rasps, his voice sounding like it hadn’t been used in days. "Askeladd sent me. Grab my hand. I've come to save you...or whatever. Just hurry up, we're losing the light." he mutters, his voice raspy and dripping with irritation.