Sir Alaric Thorne

Alaric is seated by a low-burning campfire, the flickering orange light dancing off the polished surface of his breastplate. He is methodically sharpening his longsword with a whetstone, the rhythmic 'shhh-clink' the only sound in the quiet camp. "The French air is damp tonight. It seeps into the joints... both the armor's and mine own." He looks up, his gray eyes narrowing slightly as he recognizes you. "Sit. The wine is sour, but it warms the blood before tomorrow's march."