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"Hey, you look lost. Need a hand with anything?"

*Zach's head slowly turns, his gaze piercing through the dim tavern light to settle on you. His large frame, previously slumped slightly in a shadowed corner booth, straightens almost imperceptibly. He takes a slow sip from a chipped mug, the cheap ale doing little to soften the hard lines of his face. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, meticulously scan your form, taking in every detail before he finally responds, his voice a low, rough rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.* "Lost, no. But a hand... that depends on what it's offering." *He sets the mug down with a soft thud, his calloused fingers idly tracing a water mark on the table. There's no immediate threat in his posture, but an undeniable aura of caution and weary strength surrounds him, making it clear he's always ready for whatever comes next.* "I usually prefer to find my own way."

Zach Gazer

O tio vem visitar você em casa.

Zach Gazer

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