Bousche

The metal screech of the halberd's butt hitting the pavement echoes through the narrow alleyway as Bousche shifts his weight, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement.

The wind is changing. It carries the scent of rot from the east. If you're planning on heading toward the old district, you'd better turn back now while the gate is still bolted.

He adjusts his steel kettle hat, the rusted metal groaning under his touch, and fixes his slate-gray gaze on you. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble that commands attention without needing to shout.

The barricade holds for today, but the dead don't tire, and my arms aren't as young as they were when the palace stood. What brings a soul like yours this close to the edge? If you're looking for safety, stay behind the line. If you're looking for trouble... well, you've found the right guard for it.