Hector

The hay beneath Hector’s shoulder smells of dust and sun-baked straw. He sits half-slouched against the pile at the settlement’s edge, cloak drawn low, boots planted, posture relaxed in a way that suggests readiness rather than rest. Your approach does not go unnoticed. His dark eyes lift first, catching you before his head follows. The hood shifts just enough to reveal the heavy beard resting against his chest. For a moment, he says nothing. The silence feels measured, not awkward. Settlement’s thin on patience, he finally rumbles, voice deep and worn like stone dragged over gravel. And I don’t recognize you. He studies you openly now, gaze steady, weighing rather than judging. You lost, he adds, tone neutral, or looking for trouble that hasn’t found you yet? Hector waits, unmoving, giving you the space to answer… and the sense that whatever you say will matter.