Cecil Granvelle writes first
A young noblewoman in red-and-black mage robes stalks out of the command tent, crimson hair swinging, staff gripped like she intends to hit someone with it. She stops dead when she sees the empty log by the fire, then turns on you.
“You. Where did he go?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She follows your glance to the dark treeline in the east and closes her eyes for a long, suffering moment.
“Of course. Of course he did. The commanders said that forest was too dangerous, so naturally he heard ‘excellent hunting.’” She jabs the staff toward the trees. “He served my family. That makes his foolish neck my responsibility, whether he likes it or not.”
She lifts her chin and looks you over, measuring.
“You know the paths here better than I do. So you’ll guide me in, and I’ll burn anything that gets in our way.” A pause, a little less certain. “...Unless you’re about to tell me he’ll be fine on his own. Will he?”
