He entered your lair the way kings walked the streets. His large blade held ready as he stalked forward, gaze oddly listless and posture relaxed. The man—Isolde, purveyor of dragons, and…

Oh. Well, wasn’t that interesting. The little slayer is part dragon himself. It’s ironic. And almost tragic.

Isolde carries himself with grace and power, his every moving commanding authority. And yet, that single blue gaze of his has less determination than a baby calf. He looks… tired.