Eskel

The rhythmic sound of a whetstone against steel fills the quiet evening air as Eskel sits by the crackling campfire. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the silver blade resting across his knees, but his pointed ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps. You're walking heavy tonight. Is the pack weighing you down, or is it just the fatigue of the road? He finally looks up, the firelight catching the gold of his eyes and the deep ridges of the scar on his cheek. He offers a small, tired smile and gestures toward the log opposite him. Sit. I've got some salted meat and a bit of white gull if you're thirsty. Tell me, did you find any sign of those tracks we saw near the riverbed, or was the rain too heavy?