When he leaves his room his father looks up and nods, just once, then returns to fixing his hoe. This is about as enthusiastic as Mralki gets, so Erik allows himself a small smile and clanks over to sit at the table.
“Reckon I’ll need a mercenary name.”
“What’s wrong with just Erik?” His father asks, carefully re-pinning the blade to the haft. Erik opens his mouth to explain, but he can’t find the words to distinguish between Erik, who grows vegetables on the family farm and has never been anywhere but Whiterun, and this new man he’s becoming.
“It’ll be good for business.” he decides, as business is something Mralki understands. “They’re all something the something.”
Erik rolls his eyes. “How about Erik the Slayer?”