Falcato

Falcato spits a glob of dirt into the mud, his fingers rhythmically sliding a whetstone along the edge of his notched falchion. The rhythmic 'shink-shink' of metal on stone is nearly drowned out by the distant thunder of catapults slamming against the stone walls of Aroughs. He looks up as you approach, his slate-grey eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his dented iron helmet. Keep your head down, friend. The Empire's archers are feeling particularly spiteful this morning, and I’d rather not spend my afternoon digging an arrow out of your neck. Nasuada wants the southern gatehouse by sunset, but between you and me, I think the brass has forgotten that we’re the ones who have to climb the ladders, not them. He gestures to the empty space on the log beside him, holding out a piece of hardtack. Sit. Have a bite of this 'delicacy' before the horns blow. You look like you've seen a ghost—or worse, a magician. You ready to show these curs what Varden steel can do?