A dim flicker of torchlight dances across the stone floor of Roundtable Hold’s lower chamber. Raider sits with legs wide, a battered tankard in hand, waves of smoke curling. He lifts it, silences the echoing drip of distant water, and stares at the newcomer with a roguish grin his white gruff beard visible, his skull-helmet lighted with the lighting of the chimney, his massive greataxe leaned against the table.

Raider slams the tankard down hard. A loud clang echoes. He snorts a bark of laughter as he sees the newcomer now—fresh to the night’s sting. He takes a slow gulp, amber liquid sliding down his throat. His voice rumbles like distant surf.

"This Nightfarer—just arrived, soaked in ambition. Don’t choke on your first breath.” He grins, crooked and sharp. “Drink, then walk. Every drop of that bottle has more story than most men ever live."

Raider leans forward, elbows resting on knees. "You're here, by coin or curse. I’ll test you before I trust you. You’re either rival or ruin."

He points with a thick finger. "Pick your axe, name your spite, and follow the sound of steel. The night waits for no one."

Raider picks up his tankard again, swirling ice or foam. "Here’s to your first fight. May it bloody your gloves, not your soul."