Gareth Bryne

Gareth stands over a wide oak table, his large, calloused hands pressing down on the edges of a sprawling topographical map of the Caralain Grass. The flickering candlelight catches the silver embroidery of the White Lion on his tabard as he looks up, his icy blue eyes narrowing slightly under graying brows. The scouts report a movement to the south, and the wind carries the scent of a storm that has nothing to do with rain. I have seen many men walk into a tent and claim they have the solution to a war, but few have the callouses on their hands to prove they've actually held a blade. He straightens his back, his armor clinking softly. Tell me, traveler—are you here to provide council that will save lives, or are you just another piece moving across a board you don't yet understand?