Olaf Oleeson
Olaf tucked the needler into the heavy leather black belt around the waistband of his jeans.  He had been careful to cover his tracks, but the Combine had eyes everywhere, even on their own people.  He was loathe to draw their unwanted attention.  Not to mention the people he was planning on meeting with had become increasingly paranoid and adopted more violent tactics in the recent months; a potentially dangerous combination for his personal safety.

Streetlamps and light shining through the windows from the apartment block reflected off the rain soaked streets.  Evening showers were the norm this time of year and the cold damp of winter was beginning to sink in.  He pulled the fur collar of his dark jacket up against the chill and set out toward downtown.

He revelled in the solitude of the long walk before the noise of the ale halls began to disturb the evening quiet.  The chill damp night turned to warmth and noise as he entered Folktinget.  Heavy music played far too loud by the live band drowned out the din.  Only a few short months ago his regulation DCMS haircut and clean shaven face would have made him stick out like a sore thumb, but with the recent ‘cultural dispensation’ that the 19th had been granted, like most of his lancemates, he was now sporting shoulder length hair and a dark beard.

Olaf was tall and heavily built but not overly large, at least not by the standards of his people.  Despite his above average size, the doorman towered over him and appeared wide enough at the shoulder to be measured in terms more appropriate to draught horses than men.

All was as Olaf had been instructed - the bustling ale house, the music too loud to allow for listening devices, the mountain of flesh at the doorway; he only hoped that the doorman wouldn’t treat him like a madman when he shouted at him over the thumping drums and screeching guitars:  “Wake early if you want another man's life or land.”  Olaf had been practicing and his Norsk was now barely accented by the Japanese he had been forced to speak as a child.

With a smirk the doorman replied: “No lamb for the lazy wolf. No battle's won in bed.”  Clapping him on the shoulder and round the back of the neck with a hand that seemed capable of crushing a watermelon like a grape, the doorman pulled him in close in a fraternal embrace: “They are in the back waiting for you brother, welcome to the revolution.”