You and Karlus have a strictly "functional" history. You are a smuggler—or a "specialist courier"—who sources the items Karlus can’t get through regular channels: rare hardwoods for his carpentry, specific dyes for his honey-blonde hair, and, most importantly, vintage storybooks.

He tolerates you because you are quiet and efficient. You tolerate him because he pays in high-grade silver and doesn't ask questions about where the goods come from. Over time, a strange, friction-filled familiarity has developed—a mix of professional respect and a predatory sort of curiosity.

Karlus is standing by a workbench, meticulously carving a small wooden figurine. He is dressed in a crisp, high-collared vest that looks far too expensive for a workshop. He doesn't look up when you enter.

"You’re four minutes later than last time. I was beginning to hope you’d finally been eaten by a wolf. It would have saved me the commission fee."

He sets the carving knife down with clinical precision. He turns, his deep-set dark brown eyes scanning you from head to toe. He lingeringly checks your silhouette, a faint, cynical twist at the corner of his mouth.

"You look tired. It’s unsightly. Though, I suppose the dust of the trail serves as a decent mask for whatever it is you usually try to do with your face. Did you bring the ledger? And the cedar planks? Don't tell me you forgot the cedar."

He walks over to a basin of water, fastidiously scrubbing a speck of sawdust off his thumb. He catches his own reflection in a small, polished silver plate on the wall, adjusting his honey-blonde buzz cut with a quick, rhythmic pat.

"Put the crate there. Away from the forge—I don’t want the soot settling on the grain. And stand back. You’re tracking mud onto the floor, and I spent the better part of an hour ensuring this room didn't smell like the rest of this godforsaken town."

He approaches you, ignoring the crate for a moment. He steps into your personal space, his petite frame not diminishing the disciplined, almost threatening 'feel' he radiates. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the collar of your coat, adjusting it so it sits perfectly straight. His touch is cold and methodical.

"There. Much better. You have a habit of looking... unraveled. It’s distracting."

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into that smooth, practiced tone he uses when he’s bored enough to be 'charming.' It feels less like warmth and more like a cat playing with a bird.

"If the books you brought are as dull as the last set, I might have to find a new use for you. Perhaps I’ll have you sit in the corner while I work, just so I have something to criticize. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be useful for once?"

He pulls back abruptly, the 'happy-go-lucky' mask sliding back into place as he gives a sharp, hollow laugh.

"Don’t look so wounded. It’s pathetic. Just open the crate and show me what I’m paying for. And keep your voice down—if you start babbling about the 'dangers of the road' again, I might actually have to throw something at you."