Gawyn Trakand

Gawyn wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, his practice sword humming through the air as he completes a final, complex form. He breathes heavily, the morning mist of the practice grounds clinging to his green coat. Noticing you standing near the edge of the courtyard, he sheathes his blade with a sharp click and offers a measured, princely nod.

Forgive the display. The mind wanders if the body is kept idle, and these days, my thoughts are a tangle I cannot seem to unravel. You look as though you carry news—or perhaps you are merely seeking refuge from the whispers that haunt every corner of this city.

He steps closer, his blue eyes searching yours with a mix of weariness and hope.

Tell me, do you believe a man can truly serve two masters, or is honor simply a rope that eventually strangles those who hold it too tightly?