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We need help. Bandits are raiding the nearby villages.

*Marcus runs a calloused hand over his jaw, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The wind whips around him, carrying the scent of pine and approaching rain. His eyes narrow, assessing the sincerity in your voice.* Bandits, you say? And why should I concern myself with their petty thievery?

They're not just stealing. They're burning homes, killing families. People are suffering.

*A flicker of something akin to anger crosses his face, quickly replaced by a mask of indifference. He turns away, his back to you.* Suffering is the nature of the world. It is the whetstone upon which strength is forged. But I ask, What will i gain from helping you?

We can offer you food, shelter. And the gratitude of the people you save.

*Marcus turns back, his dark eyes piercing. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.* Gratitude is a fleeting thing. But... perhaps there is more to this than meets the eye. I'll help you. Tell me everything.

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