[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] He continued walking, though at an easier pace now, attention remaining fixed upon the stranger. The crunch of packed snow beneath his boots settled into a steady rhythm as they closed in on each other, accompanied by the soft hiss of wind moving across the open countryside. Winter had a way of stripping the world down to essentials. Color disappeared beneath white. Roads became suggestions. Sounds carried farther than they should. Even people seemed reduced to the things they chose to bring with them. Which was perhaps why the fisherman stood out so much. Sandals. A straw hat. A fishing pole resting comfortably across one shoulder. The image would have looked perfectly natural standing beside a riverbank in spring. Here, in the middle of a frozen morning on a road that had seen almost no traffic for hours, it bordered on absurd. Yet the longer Aric studied him, the less it felt like a performance. He had spent enough years working a watchman's beat to know the difference between unusual and suspicious. The two often traveled together, but they were not the same thing. Most liars wanted something. Most criminals wanted something. Even harmless fools generally wanted something. Attention. Sympathy. Trust. Fear. Something. The fisherman seemed content simply existing. That alone made him difficult to categorize. His eyes drifted briefly toward the man's feet again. Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the sandals. The sight made no more sense now than it had a minute ago. If anything, it made less. Aric could feel the cold through layers of wool, leather, and common sense. The fisherman looked as though he might stop to enjoy the weather. Strange. The thought lingered for only a moment before another found its place beside it. Familiar. Aric slowed slightly, more from concentration than caution. The road remained quiet. No hidden movement among the distant trees. No second traveler approaching from behind. Only wind, snow, and the cheerful stranger standing before him. Somewhere within the collection of names, rumors, and half-finished conversations gathered in Avonshire, something had begun scratching at the back of his memory. A fisherman. Harvestide. Hostages. His expression remained neutral as the pieces slowly arranged themselves. The story had sounded ridiculous when he first heard it. Most stories did. Witnesses forgot important things and remembered absurd ones. It was one of the first lessons he'd learned wearing a watchman's badge. Ask ten people to describe a robbery and half would forget the thief's face, but every one of them would remember the color of his hat. People attached themselves to details that made sense to them, not necessarily the ones that mattered. And people remembered the fisherman. Not his name. Not where he lived. Not what he looked like. The fisherman. The fellow who'd been trapped alongside other townsfolk during the Harvestide disaster. The one whose fishing pole had somehow become part of the story. Somebody had kicked it within reach. Fighting broke out. Prisoners escaped. The fisherman helped lead survivors away from the worst of it, while others remained behind to finish the battle. A strange story. Looking at the man now, it suddenly felt much more believable. Aric found himself reassessing the encounter. The fisherman stopped being a curiosity and became a witness. Not necessarily a reliable witness. Experience had taught him that those could be two very different things. But he had been there. Close enough to see something. Close enough to know something. Whether he understood the value of that knowledge was another question entirely. The cheerful greeting replayed itself in memory. *"Nice day for fishing, ain't it?"* The man had answered a question Aric hadn't asked. Which, now that he thought about it, was an answer in its own right. Not evasive. Not defensive. Just... different. His gaze lingered on the fishing pole once more. There was something oddly reassuring about it. Not the pole itself, but the stubborn consistency of it. The world had apparently descended into disappearances, wererats, conspiracies, kidnappings, and catastrophe, and somehow this man had emerged from the experience still primarily concerned with fishing. Part of Aric respected that. Another part suspected there was more to the story. The fisherman continued smiling. No hesitation. No discomfort. No sign that he had missed the question. If anything, he seemed entirely content discussing fishing instead. Aric let the silence settle between them for a moment as they continued down the snow-covered road. Somewhere beyond the fields and distant tree lines sat the Vineyard, along with the people he had actually come to find. They would still be there when he arrived. The fisherman, however, was here now. Interesting things had a habit of disappearing when ignored. His eyes drifted once more toward the sandals. Still absurd. A small cloud of breath escaped beneath the brim of his hat. [color=3F5A6B][b]"How are your feet not freezing?"[/b][/color] The question arrived with complete sincerity. Not mockery. Not an accusation. Simple curiosity. Aric had spent the better part of the morning feeling winter through wool, leather, and layers specifically chosen for travel in harsh weather. The fisherman appeared equipped to stroll along a riverbank on a pleasant spring afternoon. A faint hint of amusement touched the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. [color=3F5A6B][b]" And before you tell me fishing keeps them warm, I'm not convinced."[/b][/color] The man had survived kidnappers, conspiracies, and apparently the cold itself. At this point, Aric was genuinely curious which accomplishment was the more impressive.