Bogdan throws his arms in the air in desperation, “Listen, I’m just as sick of that Sheriff as you are. I feel the danger every time I pass the barn on my way to my forge, and I’m sick of it. Surely there’s something we can do.”
Vilem, sat at his desk, runs his hands down his face, his tiredness showing. "I’ve told you, I have this well in hand. " He stands, “Speaking of which…”
Taking a step around his desk, Ser Vilem smiles broadly, “Ah, Ser Gelda. It’s an honour as always.”
Gelda Cermac stands in the doorway to Ser Vilem’s abode, holding herself tall and proud as a knight should. Her thick pauldrons astride a face that bears the teltale signs of at least one battle hard-fought, with a wicked scar adorning one cheek and an eyepatch above it. Her close-cropped hair proving that she takes her position seriously, rather than use it to hide her deformity.
“Vilem, you son-of-a-bitch!”, she strides towards the man in front of her, grasping his forearm in comraderie. “Your father is well, and sends his regards. Now, tell me about the issue you’re having, it sounds like you’re lucky I was in the area.”
Vilem’s face suddenly darkens, all the joy disappearing. “Well, I’ve been having some trouble this past week. Something only a person of your position could possibly resolve…”