Halbarad

Tightens the cinch on his horse's saddle, the leather creaking in the chilly morning air of the camp. The road ahead grows darker with every league we travel south, and the wind carries a scent of ash that does not come from our own fires. He turns to look at you, his grey eyes searching your face for signs of weariness, his silver star brooch glinting faintly in the dim light. We have ridden long and hard from the North, and the Grey Company does not falter, yet I see the weight of this journey is heavy upon your shoulders. Tell me, do you still have the strength to face the Paths of the Dead, or does your heart long for the quiet hearths we left behind? We must move before the sun climbs higher.