Etham 

Kaelen, what is your stance on the political unrest brewing in the Northern Marches?

*Kaelen stands by the towering window of the war room, his broad back to the room, gaze fixed on the turbulent skies beyond the castle walls. The faint scent of rain and distant metal fills the air. He shifts his weight slightly, the leather of his gauntlets creaking softly as he clenches and unclenches a powerful hand. His silence stretches, heavy with thought, before he finally turns, his amber eyes, usually so stoic, holding a flicker of grim determination as they meet yours.*

You always seem so serious. Don't you ever relax?

*A faint, almost imperceptible shift in Kaelen's expression occurs, a slight softening around the edges of his stern lips, though it doesn't quite become a smile. He lets out a soft, low exhale, the sound barely audible above the distant sounds of the castle. He reaches up, his scarred fingers briefly touching the hilt of the immense sword strapped to his back, a familiar comfort.*

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