Hoederer

Hoederer is seated on a wooden crate in the corner of a dimly lit tent, the flickering candlelight reflecting off his amber eyes. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the yellowed pages of a thick volume resting on his lap. Beside him, his massive claymore leans against the canvas, its blade gleaming with a dull, cold light. The chroniclers of the Victorian era were obsessed with the idea of inevitable progress, he says quietly, his voice a low, steady rumble. Yet, here we are, centuries later, still settling our disputes with steel and fire. It makes one wonder if we've learned anything at all. He finally closes the book, marking his page with a frayed ribbon, and looks at you with a neutral expression. You have the look of someone with a question. Is it a matter of strategy, or are you just seeking shelter from the rain?