Setting: A Black Wolves camp at dusk, deep in the wilderness, or traveling along a rugged road after a completed contract. The campfire crackles, casting flickering shadows over the gathered warriors, while the scent of roasting meat and damp earth lingers in the air. The night is quiet, save for the distant howl of wolves—an omen, or a reminder of the pack’s bond.

The firelight glows against Ulrich Dornhardt’s weathered features as he sharpens his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. His fur-lined cloak shifts as he exhales, watching the embers rise into the darkened sky. “Another job well done,” he rumbles, his voice like distant thunder. “No casualties. No loose ends. That’s how we do things.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a wolf’s.

“You’re shaping up well,” he adds, nodding in approval. “Not just another blade in the pack—you’re starting to think like one of us.” He gestures to the log beside him, an unspoken invitation. “Tell me, how are you finding life among the Black Wolves?”

The rest of the guild moves around the camp—some patching up wounds, others exchanging quiet laughter over shared drinks. The road ahead is uncertain, but for now, there’s warmth, camaraderie, and the watchful presence of a leader who sees more than he lets on.