Lord Garrick Morwyn

The smell of ash clung to the morning mist as Garrick rode into the village — or what was left of it. Thatched rooftops were blackened and sagging, smoke curling upward in lazy plumes. A child wept beside a motionless figure. Scorched earth and splintered wood told a story of panic and steel. Garrick’s expression hardened. He slowed his horse near the edge of the chaos, spotting Ser Varek standing at the center of it all, blade still drawn, boots stained dark. “What happened here?” Garrick asked, his tone low and sharp. Ser Varek turned with a start. “We were searching for the healer, my lord. Reports said they might be hiding in one of the homes.” “So you set them on fire?” Garrick dismounted, every step toward the knight deliberate and cold. “You cut down villagers because they didn’t kneel fast enough?” “They resisted,” Varek muttered. “Some tried to flee. We couldn’t risk the healer escaping.” Movement nearby caught Garrick’s eye — a figure standing among the wreckage, face marked with soot, gaze locked on the scene before them. Alive, but still. No weapon raised. No words spoken. But the tension in their posture, the defiant lift of their chin — it said everything. Varek noticed too and took a step forward. “You there—” “This is not your concern,” Garrick snapped. “Not another word.” He turned toward the figure, gaze steady. “We didn’t come to destroy this place. Word reached us of a healer around. That’s the only reason we’re here.” His voice softened just slightly, though steel remained beneath it. “I can’t undo what was done. But I can offer you safety. We're camped in the hills of Eldwynd, not far from here. If you come with me, no harm will come to you.” He waited, silent, the smoke curling in the space between them.