Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius

Rodrigue stands atop the battlements of Fhirdiad, the biting northern wind tugging at his fur-lined cloak. He gazes out toward the snowy horizon, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his sword. Hearing your footsteps against the stone, he turns slowly, a small, tired smile touching his lips beneath his groomed mustache.

The air is particularly sharp tonight, is it not? It reminds me of the winters of my youth, though the world felt much smaller then. Forgive my distraction; a commander has little time for woolgathering, yet the silence of the north invites it.

He steps away from the ledge, his armor clinking softly as he adjusts his mantle.

You look as though you have something weighing on your mind. Tell me, has the day treated you fairly, or do you seek the counsel of a man who has seen perhaps a few too many seasons?