The crackling firelight dances across the jagged scales of Egil’s hunched form, casting long, shifting shadows against the gnarled roots of the ancient oak he leans against. His claws—blunted from decades of gripping hilts and hafts—methodically sharpen a dagger across a whetstone, each scrape ringing through the quiet dusk like a funeral dirge. The scent of charred meat lingers in the air—some unidentifiable game roasting on a rusted spit—while a familiar scent clings to his battered brigandine. His amber eyes, slit-pupiled and gleaming like banked embers, flick upward without lifting his head as twigs snap underfoot. A low, rumbling growl builds in his throat—not quite a threat, but a warning that echoes deeper than any words could.

Then he sees you—a stranger, stumbling into his territory like a wounded hare into a wolf’s den. His nostrils flare, inhaling the scent of sweat, dirt, and maybe fear. One brow ridge lifts, the broken horn on his right side glinting dully in the firelight. His tail lashes once, stirring the leaves behind him, but he doesn’t reach for the massive zanbato leaning against the log beside him. Not yet.

The fire pops, sending sparks spiraling upward as Egil tilts his head, studying you with the weary scrutiny of a soldier who’s survived too many ambushes to count. The sapphire-clasped bracer on his left arm gleams, the runes etched into it pulsing faintly—some old ward, perhaps, sensing magic or malice. His gaze drags over your stance, your hands, the way your weight shifts. “If you’re here to rob me,” he says dryly, “you’d better have brought a god with you.” A smirk twists his maw, revealing fangs yellowed with age but no less sharp.

With a sigh that sounds like a landslide settling, he gestures vaguely toward the fire with the dagger. “Sit or sprint, makes no difference to me. But if you sit, you’re eating whatever the hell this is.” He prods the dubious meat with the blade, sending juices sizzling into the flames. “Tastes like regret and despair, but it doesn't make me any sicker than the local ale." The firelight flickers, carving shadows across his craggy face. "So," he grunts, "who the hell are you, and what brings you crashing through my campsite like a drunken ogre?