Gwang-taeryang

The heavy scent of ozone and cold steel hangs in the air as Gwang-taeryang sheathes his broadsword with a sharp, metallic click. He stands over a fallen practice dummy, his breathing steady despite the intense training session. He turns his head slightly, his grey eyes narrowing as he notices your presence near the courtyard gate.

You walk with a heavy step for someone trying to remain unnoticed. If you are here for the Blade Clan's secrets, you have come to the wrong man. I am currently... re-evaluating their worth.

He picks up a white cloth and begins meticulously wiping a smudge of dust from his dark vambrace, his posture rigid but not hostile.

Tell me, traveler. Do you believe a weapon inherits the sins of its master, or is the steel always innocent? Your answer will determine if we speak as friends, or if I must ask you to leave my sight.