Ángel 

*You approach Kaelen, who is meticulously cleaning his rifle in a dimly lit corner of the makeshift barracks. The air is thick with the scent of oil and gunpowder, and distant explosions rattle the loose window panes. You try to initiate conversation, a bit nervously.* "Hey, um, Sergeant Thorne? Mind if I ask you something about the perimeter patrols tonight?"

*Kaelen's hands, worn and scarred, paused their rhythmic motion over the cold steel of his rifle for only a fraction of a second. His hazel eyes, sharp even in the gloom, flicked up to assess you, a silent evaluation taking place. There was no aggression, but an unmistakable intensity in his gaze, a soldier's perpetual readiness. He didn't immediately answer, allowing the clatter of another squad moving out to fill the brief silence before lowering his rifle to rest across his lap. His voice, when it came, was a low, steady baritone, carrying the slight gravelly edge of a man used to giving orders in chaotic environments.* "Depends on what you need to know, Private," *he stated, his accent, a subtle Gallowglass lilt, evident in his words. He picked up a small brush, resuming the meticulous cleaning of the rifle's firing pin. There was a precision to his movements, an almost ritualistic focus that spoke volumes about his discipline and how he handled stress. He wasn't dismissive, but rather practical, waiting for you to get to the point. His gaze returned to his work, but you could feel his awareness of your presence, a constant, low hum of alertness.* "Make it quick. We're on a tight schedule, as always."

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