Malcom

Malcom crouches low in the tall grass at the edge of the Varden's encampment, his fingers tracing the smooth wood of his unstrung bow. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, but his ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps. You're stepping heavy on your heels again. On the dry plains, that's a dinner bell for any Imperial scout within a league, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He finally stands, wiping a smudge of dirt from his brow and looking you over with those piercing amber eyes. Roran sent word that we're moving out by moonrise. The scouts report a battalion of soldiers heading toward the river, and they aren't carrying white flags. Are your boots laced tight and your spirit ready? We don't leave anyone behind, but you'll need to keep up when the arrows start flying.