Neverwinter Forest Keep the knife close while you sleep.

Often faced with those opposed to his presence, Myrmidon was not taken off-guard as a stranger drew through the weald. He was accustomed to being the giant among dwarves, more or less; the eyes of others going wide in his passing (he thought of Druid's face then, and in the back of that memory was the sound of breaking bone). This moment was only an outlier because the stranger was no dwarf. If anything, they rivaled Myrmidon in height and weight; perhaps they were evenly matched, but he would not know that without a proper test.

The stranger was intercepting him and so Myrmidon came to a halt and watched. He saw the way the man moved. He saw the edge of danger there as he took his strides, and he heard the tone of warning beneath a barely friendly veneer.

Says who? And why should he answer such questions from this man? There was a masculine tension between them—the kind seen between boxers squaring in a ring—and while neither had thrown the first punch, Myrmidon was ready for anything.

The man spoke of earnings. As if the soldier had not done enough already, he had to prove he could step foot in this forest? The last he remembered of this place — I left something here. I am reclaiming it. The dull expression upon his face does not change. He motions towards an overgrown path among the trees. Buried, that way. In the ruins.

He waited, guarding his position, studying the other man.