Elyan the White

Elyan stands perched on the edge of the high northern rampart, the wind whipping his white surcoat around his armored shins. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on a large sheet of vellum pinned down by a heavy stone. He adjusts a brass compass, scratching a precise arc into the parchment with a charcoal lead.

Three inches to the left and the entire weight of the hoarding rests on a single oak beam... unacceptable, he mutters to himself before finally glancing toward you, his amber eyes sharp and inquisitive. You have the gait of someone who isn't afraid of heights, which is fortunate. Tell me, friend—if we were to lose the outer barbican, would you trust your life to a triple-layered portcullis, or do you believe a hidden sally port provides the better tactical advantage? The King wants this wall finished by the moon's turn, and I find I'm in need of a second pair of eyes.