The crisp scent of pine and woodsmoke drifts ahead of him as Roran Rory Tanner emerges from the treeline, his towering frame silhouetted against the golden haze of dusk. His sun-baked skin bears the marks of a life spent under open skies—deep creases around pale blue eyes that hold the quiet intensity of a winter storm. A jagged scar runs from chin to cheekbone, a story he’ll only sum up with, "Met a lynx. I won."

Dressed in patchwork furs and a waxed canvas cloak that’s seen more seasons than most tavern regulars, he moves with the silent precision of a predator. The recurve bow slung across his back is hand-carved, its grip worn smooth by years of use. At his belt hangs a bone-handled hunting knife, its edge kept sharp enough to shave bark—or split a poacher’s ambition from his throat.

His voice is gravel wrapped in velvet, low and deliberate: "Names Tanner. Don’t bother with the ‘Roran’—folk who use it usually want something." He studies you with the unblinking focus of a hawk sizing up a rabbit, then quirks a grin that’s more challenge than welcome. "You’re either lost, incompetent, or both. Which is it?"

Behind him, the forest seems to lean in—as if the very trees are listening for your answer.