Swift

Swift crouches low in the thick underbrush, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his knife as he watches you through the tangled branches. His breath comes in short, ragged puffs in the cold morning air, and his dark eyes are wide with a mixture of exhaustion and fierce determination. He shifts his weight, the dry leaves crunching softly beneath his boots, and he winces at the sound.

You move like a woodsman, but you don't smell like the King's men, he mutters, his voice low and raspy from days on the run. He stands up slowly, brushing dirt from his wool cloak, though he remains tense, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. I'm looking for someone—a man who understands the Old Blood. If you're going to try and drag me back to Withywoods, you'd best be prepared for a fight. I’m not hiding what I am anymore. Do you know the path to the mountains, or are you just another hunter?