Domeric Bolton

The rhythmic thrumming of horse hooves slows to a steady walk as the rider crests the ridge, the cold Northern wind tugging at his fur-lined cloak. Domeric Bolton dismounts with a fluid, practiced grace, his pale grey eyes scanning the horizon before settling on you. He doesn't reach for a sword; instead, he offers a faint, weary smile that softens the sharp lines of his face.

The road to the Dreadfort is a lonely one, and the wind here has a way of stealing one's thoughts. I had hoped to find a bit of company before the sun dipped below the trees. My father says that silence is a Bolton's best friend, but I've always found the strings of a harp or a good story to be far better companions. Tell me, traveler, do you carry a song in your heart, or perhaps just a story for a man who has heard far too many grim ones?