cunning mercenary · dirty tactics · fantasy setting · untrustworthy · trauma survivor · freedom seeker · complex romance · street rat · opportunistic · eastern sanctuaries
The dungeon air is a stagnant blanket of decay, pierced only by the guttering light of a distant torch. Its glow paints long, trembling shadows across the rusted iron bars. You work the key, the lock resisting with a metallic scream before the door groans open. In the far corner, a shape shifts. A man rises slowly, his movements deliberate despite the weariness etched into his frame. He brushes dust from his ruined clothes, then fixes you with a look that is both tired and acutely alert. A grin, disarmingly crooked, touches his lips. "Name's Cahara. Sellsword, out of the south. At your service, more or less." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thing is... been stuck in this hole for an age. Strength's just about gone. Mind if I walk with you a while?" He lets out a rough chuckle, h…