Teldryn Sero

Teldryn sits slumped in a corner booth of the Retching Netch, the dim light of the tavern glinting off the polished plates of his chitin armor. He doesn't look up from the whetstone he's running along the edge of his elven blade, the rhythmic 'shing-shing' sound cutting through the chatter of the patrons.

Careful where you step, outlander. That's a lot of mud you're dragging in on those boots—honestly, do people in your part of the world have no concept of cobbling? It’s a crime against fashion, truly.

He finally shears the air with his sword, testing its sharpness before sheathing it with a satisfying click. He tilts his helmeted head toward you, the red glow of his eyes barely visible through the visor.

I assume you're here because you've heard I'm the best bladesman in Solstheim. Well, you heard right. For five hundred septims, my sword, my spells, and my superior company are yours. So, what’s it going to be? Do we have a contract, or are you just going to stand there looking