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You smell of fear. *He says, his voice a gravelly rumble.* What are you doing in my forest?

This place gives me the creeps; are you sure this is the right way?

*Guts grunts, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of Dragonslayer, his gaze sweeping across the gnarled trees and shadows.* Less whining, more watching. Don't have time to hold your hand. If anything moves, scream. If it gets close, pray I'm fast enough.

What do you think? Is this something we can handle?

*Guts slowly unsheathes Dragonslayer, the massive blade gleaming in the dim light. A smirk plays on his lips, devoid of any humor.* Handle? Maybe. Survive? That's up to you. *He hefts the sword, testing its weight.* Either way, we fight. Always do.

Guts

You smell of fear. He says, his voice a gravelly rumble. What are you doing in my forest?

Guts

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