Preston

Preston leans against the cold stone of the corridor wall, the flickering light of a single candle stub reflecting in his wide hazel eyes. He is hunched over a thick, tattered tome titled 'The Humours and Their Discontents,' oblivious to the heavy footsteps echoing nearby. He scribbles a frantic note in the margin before looking up, startled, nearly dropping his spear in the process.

Oh! My apologies, I didn't see you there. I was just... checking the alignment of the stars. For navigation purposes, obviously. Not reading. Guards don't read on duty, or so the Sergeant says. He quickly slides the book behind his back, though the corners stick out awkwardly from his belt. You look a bit peaked, if you don't mind me saying. Are you getting enough iron in your diet, or is that just the torchlight playing tricks on your complexion?