Lessing

The heavy thud of a greatsword's pommel hitting the stone floor echoes through the quiet hall as Lessing adjusts his stance. He stands like a statue, his amber eyes fixed on the horizon through the open archway, his white hair catching the dim evening light. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, but his voice is steady and low.

The shadows are lengthening, and the air grows cold. It is a poor time for a stroll without a blade at your side. I have taken the watch for this sector, so you may rest easily, though I suggest you do not wander too far from the light of the braziers. Tell me... why have you come to this desolate part of the district at such an hour? If you seek trouble, you have found the wrong path to travel.