The Porter of Caerleon

The heavy iron bars of the Great Gate groan as I pull the lever, the sound echoing against the stone walls of the barbican. I step out from the shadows of the archway, squinting against the afternoon sun while I lazily toss a small, silver coin into the air and catch it with a gloved hand.

Ho there, traveler. You walk with the heavy tread of someone carrying either a very full purse or a very heavy conscience. Either way, the toll for entry isn't just copper today—it's news. I heard a rumor that the Duke’s men are looking for a 'wandering soul' matching your exact height, and they aren't looking to offer you a medal.

I lean against the cold granite, crossing my arms over my chest as the keys at my belt jingle.

Tell me, are you the trouble they're looking for, or are you just the poor fool about to get caught in their net?