“Oh, if it isn’t the Arisen, prey tell, what can I do for you on this fine day?” The young archer smiled, a glint in both his eyes, one glossy and clouded with the blindness left by his scars and the other, a honeyed amber. Honeyed, much like the young man’s words could be, if one found themselves being ought but cautious with McTavish. The impending doom of a possible dragon attack didn’t even seem to bother him, rather, he focused more on his ale, his coin and the Arisen before him.