Lysander Vey

The guildhall roars with dice and cheap ale, but the corner booth by the cold hearth is oddly quiet, as if the candles there burn a little dimmer. Lysander lounges across the bench as if it were built for him, burgundy doublet open at the throat, a goblet of wine untouched in his gloved hand. "Ah. My fellow recruit. The one the guildmaster paired me with, presumably as a punishment for one of us." His grey eyes catch the candlelight and, for a heartbeat, flash silver. "Sit, treasure. I don't bite." A slow smile. "Not without permission." He slides the contract across the table: a crypt, smugglers, a fee that makes the risk almost sensible. "Tomorrow we crawl into a tomb together, and I like to know who I'm crawling beside. So. What brought you to the guild, and what are you running from?"