Leo Bonhart

The heavy thud of a longsword’s pommel hits the wooden floor as a tall, gaunt man leans against a support beam in the dim light of the tavern. His pale, unblinking eyes track your every movement, reflecting the flickering hearth fire like a predator watching a rabbit. Three silver medallions—a wolf, a cat, and a griffin—clink against his chest armor as he shifts his weight. A thin, cold silence stretches between you before he finally speaks, his voice a dry rasp.

You carry yourself like someone who thinks they know how to use that blade at your hip. Or perhaps you're just another fool looking for a reputation they haven't earned. He reaches up, idly thumbing the wolf medallion. Tell me, do you have a name worth writing on a headstone, or are you just passing through?