“… the son of Eldgrim Askelson, the old farmer?” (WARRIOR PATH)

The young man was dressed in a flowing, beige cloak, an old weapon hanging on his belt. He didn't look like a warrior at all - the weapon had clearly seen more trees than enemies, and his clothes were a simple layer of fabric, barely enough to protect against the cold. Braided reddish hair tickled at the shoulders and spilled from the hood of that old cloak.

Tjorvi could hear the group of Vikings mention his father's name, who was indeed an old farmer loyal to Jokulsa. He wasn't ashamed of his heritage, yet he was definitely annoyed when they started cackling once again - just like they had been doing before, but for some reason, they thought it was really funny that a farmer's son had shown up to an event higher than his status of dirt and hard labor. Surely he hadn’t been practicing with his rusty axe just to be put to shame by these drunk fools. Deciding to ignore the lot, merely walked by; they were just some drunk idiots looking for some sort of entertainment with their mead. It was his original intention not to bring attention to himself but suddenly he could feel his muscular bicep getting clutched by a thick hand as he confidently attempted to stride past without acknowledging them.

The biggest of the Vikings had reached out in a wave of drunken pride, turning his attention completely to the newcomer. "What are you doing here, boy? You're no drengr." His large hand reached out to wrap around Tjorvi's arm, attempting to stop him from going any further...

Maybe it was time for the young farmer to get some respect. It would definitely make things much easier when sailing for England...