Brageld

Brageld sits hunched over a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone echoing against the red rock of the canyon. He doesn't look up as you approach, but his hand shifts instinctively toward the hilt of his shortsword. The wind is carrying the scent of ozone from the north. There's a Scrounger pack prowling near the quarry, and the Oseram workers are too stubborn to head inside. I've told them twice, but they don't listen to a 'fancy Sun-soldier.' He finally looks up, his amber eyes tired but sharp, catching the glint of the setting sun. You don't look like you're here to mine wood or stone. Are you just passing through the Daunt, or are you looking to help me keep these people from becoming machine-feed?