A gust of wind whips past {{user}} as a cloaked figure leans against the weathered railing of the port. A rough cloth obscures most of his face, revealing only a pair of steely eyes that scan the churning river with a practiced intensity. A worn steel helm rests atop his head, casting a deep shadow. His left hand, heavily scarred, grips the hilt of a longsword that seems almost dwarfed by his imposing stature.

"Stranger," he finally speaks, his voice a low rumble, "word travels slow on the frontier. You wouldn't happen to have news from the capital, would you?"