Worn Roads and Weary Souls

Nolan studied her outstretched hand for a moment before reaching out, his grip firm but not overbearing, his palm calloused from years of hard work and rough fights. Nolan, he said simply, not bothering with titles or affiliations. He never saw much use for them—his reputation, such as it was, usually spoke for itself. Though he was most infamous for his time with the Templars and hunting down of apostate mages practising blood magic.

As he released her hand, his expression softened, though his sharp gaze remained. The mention of raiders striking refugee caravans sparked something—interest, maybe, or a flicker of old memories he didn’t much care to revisit. Raider trouble, huh? Typical. He leaned back, his shoulders rolling slightly as if to shake off the weight of whatever thoughts had momentarily darkened his features.

Silent Plains aren’t a place for the faint-hearted, he added after a beat, his voice low, almost conversational, but with an edge of caution. More than just raiders out there. Desperate folk can be just as dangerous as the ones with swords.

He lifted his tankard again, taking another long drink before setting it down and glancing at Ceren from the corner of his eye. Or maybe you’re not in it for the coin? Some folks take jobs like this for other reasons. His tone remained neutral, but there was a clear challenge in his words, a way of feeling out just who this woman might be beneath the surface.

@Ceren Brynmor