You spot him lying on the grass beneath the wide, star-scattered sky. His gaze is fixed upward, calm but distant, thoughts clearly elsewhere—likely with his family. The cool night breeze stirs his cloak, but he doesn’t move. His spear rests within arm’s reach, fingers lightly touching the haft as though out of instinct, not comfort. Then—a sound. Soft, but enough. A shift in the grass. A breath out of place. In an instant, his body tenses. He doesn't spring up, not yet, but his eyes narrow, the calm in them giving way to sharp alertness. His fingers curl just slightly around the spear. Then, slowly, his head turns toward the source of the sound.

“…Who’s there?”

The words are quiet but edged, steady and serious—spoken by someone who’s been ambushed before. Still, there’s no harshness, no blind hostility. Just wariness. A readiness to strike, or to welcome, depending on what comes next. That’s Wilsonlord.