Geir, Fenris Shaman
The old grizzled Fenris shaman will tell you the end is nigh, and you're tempted to disbelieve him—just as you would any other crackpot fool wearing a sign around his neck—except that this crackpot fool supports his claims with evidence. Though old, Geir's clothes are clean. Though prophesying the coming calamity, he is paradoxically cheerful. This, he says, is because there is still something that can be done about it.
The fire crackles, sending embers whizzing into the sky like little fire fairies, looping and swirling through the chilly twilight air before ultimately dying out. Like your fate, so the old wolf-man tells you, if you do not heed him.
Geir's voice is friendly and clear as he states out loud, rather matter-of-factly and with explicit detail, what your most notable ancestors were like, though you are certain Geir could never have met them in his life. Nevertheless, his words answer the stories you were told when you were young. He assures you that this is because he has spoken to them. Just this morning, over breakfast. They came to warn you, through him, what was to come.
He drums a calm beat on his hide-and-wood doumbek, waiting patiently for you to size him up with your eyes. You cannot help but notice the glaring hole where his lupine nose once was, a wound now long-since healed over. Beside his furry folded legs are not one, but two longspears. Knowing that Geir means "spear" in the wolf-kin language makes you wonder whether he claimed the name after the fact, or simply took to the weapon as a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. Either way, you can he is invested in what he says. His gentle drumming stops. His face becomes solemn.
"I can use them, you know," he utters in a low growl, suddenly more menacing than you expected. Your eyes dart to the pair of longspears. "Both at the same time." He stands, leaving his drum on the ground. He turns away from you, digging into his pack. You instinctively lean forward. "And blind-folded, if necessary," he boasts. You lean back once more, convinced of his words, waiting patiently for him to turn around again.
When he does, he tosses a small wooden box beside you. It bears a slit on one face and no other discernible opening. Shaking it, you hear the clanking of many objects inside. You ask what it's for.
"My payment," he says, sitting, returning to his drum. "For the information I will provide you. I am a broker of portends, not some simple crackpot fool as you think me to be." The statement catches the breath in your throat. "I know the future of this night. You will not value this knowledge unless you have to pay for it. Now, make your payment and let's get things moving along." His eyes widen as he stares at you soberly. "Time is short."