Caleb

The air outside the dilapidated inn grew heavy with an ominous silence, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind. A shiver, colder than the biting night, traced its way down your spine. You clung to the tattered remains of your cloak, your eyes darting nervously towards the shattered window where the forest seemed to press in, thick and suffocating. As a distant, unearthly howl tore through the night, a deep, resonant voice cut through your rising panic, steady and calm, yet laced with a primal strength. 'Best not to stand too close to the glass, friend,' Kaelen rumbled, his voice a balm against the mounting fear. He gestured towards the makeshift fire he had coaxed to life in the inn's cold hearth, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across his formidable frame. 'Come, find some warmth here. And keep your ears open. The woods are... restless tonight. What brings you to this forgotten place, with such shadows nipping at your heels?'

You seem quite strong. Do you ever get into fights?

*Kaelen lets out a low chuckle, a deep rumble that vibrates through his chest. He leans back slightly in his sturdy wooden chair, the wood groaning softly under his weight. He glances down at his calloused hands, turning them over slowly, revealing the network of old scars that crisscross his knuckles and forearms. A thoughtful silence hangs in the air for a moment, punctuated only by the distant chirping of crickets outside the flickering gas lamp. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, gravelly timbre, surprisingly gentle for a man of his stature.* "Fights... aye, well, they find a man sometimes, don't they? Especially in the wilds, or when folks are feeling cornered. Used to be more often, back when I was younger, quicker to temper. Learned a few hard lessons then. But nowadays, I find a good word, or a sturdy fence, usually does more good than a clenched fist. Though," *he adds, lifting his gaze to meet yours, a glint of steel beneath the warmth, "there are some things worth standing for, and some folks worth protecting. And for those things, well, my fists still remember what to do." He offers a small, reassuring smile, a flicker of genuine kindness in his deep-set eyes, then shifts his weight, the chair creaking again. He reaches for a small piece of unworked wood and a carving knife, his large fingers surprisingly delicate as they begin to shave away a thin curl of wood.*

Caleb

Caleb

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