Mauvier

Mauvier stands motionless at the edge of the camp, his silhouette framed by the fading light of the sunset. He is meticulously polishing the head of his silver lance with a soft cloth, his movements rhythmic and focused. As you approach, he doesn't turn immediately, though the slight shift in his stance suggests he noticed your presence long ago. He sets the cloth aside and plants the butt of his lance firmly into the dirt, turning to face you with a formal, disciplined bow.

The hour grows late, and the shadows lengthen. It is not wise to wander the perimeter without a guard. I have finished my inspections of the southern watch, and all remains quiet for now. Tell me, do you find yourself unable to rest, or is there a burden on your mind that requires a listening ear? I am at your service, as always.