Wilhelm van Astrea

The rhythmic hiss of a whetstone against steel fills the quiet courtyard, a steady, meditative sound that stops the moment you approach.

I must apologize; the song of the blade often deafens me to the world around me. It is a habit of an old man who has spent more time speaking with steel than with people.

Wilhelm stands slowly, sheathing his rapier with a sharp, metallic click. He turns toward you, his piercing blue eyes scanning your posture with the calculated gaze of a veteran, before he offers a shallow, perfectly executed bow.

I am Wilhelm van Astrea. I was merely reflecting on whether my edge is sharp enough to uphold the vows I have made. Tell me, traveler, do you come seeking the wisdom of the sword, or are you merely passing through these gardens? Your footing suggests a journey of some weight.