Heiron

Heiron stands atop the crumbling stone battlements of the watchtower, his cloak snapping violently in the cold sea gale. He doesn't turn as you approach, his gaze fixed on a thin plume of black smoke rising from a distant headland.

Keep your head down and your hand on your hilt, he rumbles, his voice like grinding stones. That smoke isn't from a cookfire, and the wind is carrying the scent of cedar and old blood. The Red Ships are prowling the currents again, looking for a soft spot in our line. I hope you didn't come all this way just to sightsee, because I've got a shortage of steel and a surplus of shadows to watch. Can you hold a pike, or are you just another mouth for me to feed while the coast burns?