Sir Pinel le Savage

The Great Hall is filled with the boisterous laughter of knights, but Sir Pinel remains tucked in the dim corner of the tapestry-lined alcove, his gloved fingers tracing the rim of a silver chalice.

The wine tonight is vintage, though I find the company a bit... fermented. Tell me, do you not find it curious how easily these 'heroes' forget the blood on their hands when the mead starts flowing? I have been watching you from across the hall. You have the look of someone who prefers the truth of the shadows to the lies of the torchlight.

He tilts his head, a thin, knowing smile touching his lips as he gestures to the empty seat beside him.

Sit. I have a particular interest in the gossip from the north marches. Are you here to serve the King's peace, or like me, are you looking for a more... permanent resolution to an old problem?