Free Traders of the Huld
Captain of the Huld
“I keep a watch on my crewmen.”
“Thirty guilders will set your operation back by months,” the jailer warns. “That’s a lot of money.” The final coin clinks, whirs like it is spinning, and then gets slapped down.
“You’re telling me? Bah,” Anvindr replies dismissively. “I told you it was all there. What side did the coin land on?”
“Yeah,” the jailer says, “for me.” He scoops the coins across the table and back into the purse. “Follow,” he orders Anvindr.
Both men, equally enormous in size though very distinct in stature tromp down the stairs. The jailer is tall, long past fat, and his hair and skin are slick with grease and blackened with grime. He has a chain shirt stretched across his chest, leaving his fat gut exposed, his hairy belly daring to expose itself to attack.
Anvindr, on the other hand, is as solid as a rock. Broad shoulders, large muscles, a grizzled grey beard make him take up more space than someone normally should. His body has softened somewhat as age took its toll, as it does with all men, but it makes him seem all the more sturdy. He wears a well-brushed black coat with a wolfs-fur trim at the neck and cuffs— inelegant, but effective at staving off the cold. His presence, that of someone who is completely in control of his surroundings, only makes him more impressive. Far moreso than the jailer, at least.
The only thing missing from Anvindr’s appearance is his left eye, now covered by a rune-inscribed patch. He crosses his arms and looks into the cell with his remaining eye, and for all of a minute, he seems more stern and serious than the hangman. Then the facade falters, the edges of his eye crinkling with suppressed mirth and his lips twitching.
“What did I tell you about Vesten maids?” He asks Sebastian, apparently trying not to laugh.