[center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center][table][row][/row][row][cell]
[h2][color=3F5A6B][i][b]Aric Voss[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=3F5A6B]Half-Elf, Ranger (Gloom Stalker), Level 5[/color][/b][/i]
[color=3F5A6B][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 44 / 44	[color=3F5A6B][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 15 (17 w/shield)	[color=3F5A6B][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=3F5A6B][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Open road to Vineyard
[color=3F5A6B][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=3F5A6B][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=3F5A6B][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[/cell][cell]
[right][img]https://imgur.com/eOFtcCC.jpeg[/img][/right]
[/cell][/row][/table][center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center]

The road had not improved with time.

If anything, the rising daylight only made the cold more honest about its intentions.

Aric shifted his footing on a narrower patch of packed snow, where previous travelers had temporarily made the path easier to navigate. A gentle wind now swept across the open moors, serving as a reminder that winter was still imposing its demands.

The figure ahead registered first as movement against the white landscape.

Then, details began assembling themselves.

Human. Traveling alone. Wide straw hat. Sandals. Fishing pole. In winter.

On a road that had seen next to no traffic for hours.

Aric's pace slowed almost imperceptibly.

Not alarm. Assessment.

People who matched their environment rarely demanded much attention. The ones who did not generally warranted a second look.

The greeting carried easily across the cold morning air.

[i][color=darkgray]"G'morning! Nice day for fishing, ain't it? Huah hah!"[/color][/i]

Aric regarded the man quietly as they closed the distance, eyes dropping briefly toward the sandals before returning upward again.

[color=3F5A6B][b]"...Optimistic choice of footwear."[/b][/color]

The words came flatly, more observation than criticism.

His gaze lingered a little longer this time.

Weather inappropriate clothing. Unbothered posture. No visible discomfort. Cheerful affect that either ignored the circumstance entirely or understood something he did not.

Potentially useful details.

[color=3F5A6B][b]"Fishing pole too."[/b][/color]

A small cloud of breath escaped beneath the brim of his hat.

[color=3F5A6B][b]"Either you're heading somewhere I don't know about, or you've got a higher tolerance for winter than most of Avonshire."[/b][/color]

He continued walking, though at an easier pace now, attention remaining quietly fixed on the stranger.

The clothing was wrong for the weather. The demeanor was wrong for the road. Yet neither felt forced. No bravado. No strain hidden beneath the smile. Just an easy familiarity with circumstance that should have been miserable.

And then recognition found its footing.

Not from the road.

From Avonshire.

From rumors, fragments, and the sort of details a watchman learned to hold onto because seemingly insignificant people had a habit of standing near important moments.

Hostage. One of the prisoners taken during the Harvestide catastrophe. The fisherman. The one who had helped get people out once the fighting turned chaos into opportunity. A fishing pole kicked within reach. Prisoners led clear while others stayed behind to finish the work.

Strange, but not random.

Aric's pace eased another fraction as old instincts quietly rearranged the man in front of him from roadside eccentric into witness.

[color=3F5A6B][b]"You were there. At Harvestide?"[/b][/color]