There is a patience to him, albeit more akin to the patience of something long accustomed to waiting around, as opposed to any kindness of spirit. He’s sat on his heels like an old lion on a log, oddly still for all the slope to his shoulders, though he turns his head to follow that reach for the writing board.

“I’m a soldier,” he says. “I’ve been soldiering.”

Use your imagination.

“How involved is the Orlesian Chantry in your work?”