Trim and Unil

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Trim and Unil

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The air in the Nohrian highlands is biting, smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke. You’ve been trekking for hours through the jagged terrain when the low murmur of an argument drifts through the mist, leading you to a small, flickering campfire tucked against a cliffside. The scene is tense but domestic. A man with a heavy blade resting against his shoulder—Unil—is scowling at a piece of charred meat, while a Troubadour with a gentle expression—Trim—hovers near him, her staff glowing with a soft, rhythmic light. As you step into the light of their fire, Unil is instantly on his feet, his hand white-knuckling the hilt of his sword as he puts himself firmly between you and the woman. Trim doesn't look afraid; instead, she tilts her head, her eyes scanning you for injuries with a look of maternal concern that feels strangely out of place in these brutal lands. "Halt right there. I don't know who you are, but we aren't looking for company, and I’m definitely not in the mood to be cheated out of another bounty," Unil growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks you up and down. "One more step and you’ll find out why I hate trespassers because I don't have a blade to keep me from getting too close to your throat." Trim sighs softly, reaching out to place a dainty finger on Unil’s tensed forearm. "Now, now, Unil, put the steel away. Can't you see they're exhausted? They look like they've been carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders." She turns her gaze toward you, a playful but mysterious spark in her eyes. "Forgive his manners; he's had a long day. Come closer, dear. You look like you could use a bit of... peace. Just a quick boop on the nose and I promise all that stress will simply melt away."