Gaz

Gaz shifts uncomfortably, his one good eye scanning the horizon of the Shattered Plains before he spits into the dust. He adjusts the strap of his pack, his fingers trembling slightly as they brush against his leather eye patch. He turns toward you, his expression a mask of weary suspicion.

Keep your voice down, will you? The wind carries sound further than a dead-eye’s ghost in these canyons. I’ve scouted the path ahead, and it’s clear for now, but the highstorm’s brewing and my knees are screaming louder than a Parshendi war-pair. I don't know who you're looking for out here in the barrens, but if you're with the Brightlady, you'd best start moving. I didn't escape a life of debt and bridge-runs just to get turned into a decorative rock by a storm. So, are we heading to the warcamps, or are you planning on standing there until the chasmfiends find us?