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[h2][color=64520A][i][b]Daxos Ironbow[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=64520A]Dwarf, Rogue, Thief, Level [/color]05[/b][/i]
[color=64520A][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 43 / 43	[color=64520A][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 14	[color=64520A][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=64520A][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Southmoor
[color=64520A][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] Making a new friend. 
[color=64520A][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=64520A][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A 
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[right][img]https://i.ibb.co/p67XnxBB/IMG-0542.jpg[/img][/right]
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The snow muffled the sound of the wagon wheels as it rolled into Southmoor. Daxos hopped down onto the packed, icy street, his boots crunching against the frost. He gave Urmdrus a curt nod, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

[color=64520a][i]“Aye… thanks fer carryin’ me this far,”[/i][/color] he muttered, his voice low but firm. [color=64520a][i]“I’ll be takin’ it from here. Ye’ve done more’n enough.”[/i][/color]

The grey-skinned dwarf gave a grunt, already unhooking the horse from its harness, more focused on his tools than goodbyes. That suited Daxos fine. Sentiment wasn’t something he could afford these days. With a last glance at the wagon, he turned toward the township center, boots carrying him away from the grieving household and into the uncertain streets of Southmoor.

Each step seemed heavier than it should’ve been. The weight wasn’t in the snow or the travel—it was in memory. The botched job. The chase through alleys, shadows splitting with torchlight. The echo of armored boots behind him. The sting of knowing that, once again, he was running, leaving behind the wreckage of trust and coin unpaid. Consequences had a way of catching up. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Hiding in some backwater vineyard, far from the stone halls and teeming cities where real gold was made, wasn’t what he had once imagined for himself. But survival didn’t ask for dignity.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice her at first. She stood out, though, like a shard of sunlight against the frost. A tiefling woman—bronze-toned skin, four elegant white horns shaded with blue at the tips, her hair braided down her back in a shining rope of white. Her clothes were strange, flowing and cut in ways more suited for dancing than trudging through snow, veils layered in shades of blue that moved with the breeze. Jewelry glittered faintly where the winter light caught it, and at her side hung a scimitar, the weapon looking as much a part of her as her confident posture.

Daxos slowed, recalling Urmdrus’ words. Get close to the adventurers. Safer under a roof with them. He didn’t know her name, but she fit the description well enough—too strange, too assured to be anything but one of the sellswords the Vineyard housed.

He stepped toward her, careful not to appear desperate, though he felt the weight of it pressing against his ribs.

[color=64520a]“Ye look like ye ken yer way better’n I dae,”[/color] he said with a hint of dry humor curling his words. [color=64520a]“I’m new tae these parts, tryin’ tae find me way tae the Vineyard. Got work waitin’ fer me there—or so I’ve been telt.”[/color]