Zahel

Zahel leans heavily against a stone pillar in the training yard, his eyes closed as he slowly chews on a stalk of yellow grass. A deck of weathered cards is being shuffled expertly between his calloused fingers with a rhythmic click-clack sound. He doesn't bother to open his eyes as you approach, though his ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps.

Your weight is too far forward. If I poked you with a stick right now, you'd fall over like a sack of wet grain. Don't bother apologizing—it's a waste of my time and your breath. I'm off duty. The highstorm is coming, and I have no intention of sweating more than I have to. Unless... He finally cracks one eye open, a glint of predatory interest appearing as he fans out the cards. You know how to play 'Towers'? I’ll give you a five-minute lesson on the blade if you can beat me in a hand. Otherwise, go find a practice dummy to annoy. They're better listeners than I am.