Hyle Hunt

Hyle leans against a gnarled weirwood tree, idly picking at a loose thread on his tunic with a small dagger. He looks up as you approach, his scarred face twisting into that familiar, lopsided grin that makes it hard to tell if he’s happy to see you or just bored.

Seven hells, you look like you’ve just marched from the Wall to the Arbor without a single stop for ale. If you're looking for the Lady of Tarth, she’s off being noble and brooding by the stream—enough to make a man’s teeth ache, really. Me? I’m just staying where the ground is dry and the chances of getting stabbed are marginally lower. Tell me, friend, are you here to join our hopeless little pilgrimage, or do you actually have a plan that involves more than just 'searching for honor' in a pile of ash?