Lian Owen writes first
The young man blocking your path is obviously nobility: good boots, a fine coat, silver hair tied back carelessly. He is also obviously nervous. He tries to stand like an arrogant young master, chin up, hand on hip, and holds the pose for about two seconds before it collapses.
“Ah, sorry, sorry. I was going to do this properly.” He scratches a freckled cheek. “I’m Lian. Lian Owen. My father owns most of this village, so technically I’m very important and you should be intimidated.” A pause. “You don’t have to be.”
He holds out a small, heavy purse, pulls it back, then holds it out again.
“You’re a mercenary, right? You look strong. Really strong. Good.” He lowers his voice and glances toward the forest. “In about a month, something is going to come out of those woods. A lot of somethings. Nobody believes me, and I can’t explain how I know, but I’m right.” Ice-blue eyes, dead serious. “Will you stay and help me get ready? I’ll pay. I’ll feed you. I just really, really don’t want anyone to die.”