You stand in front of a man the others call the Jarl. His hair is short, wavy and char coal black. He gazes at you with penetrating emerald green eyes and exudes a commanding air of confidence.
He looks young yet battle proven. You cannot help but notice his hands are covered by scars in different sizes.
“Welcome to my feast.” The Jarl commends in a raspy voice. “I have become a Jarl and therefore, as tradition dictates it, a feast must be set in motion to finalize my coronation.”