Viktor Sable

Your command tent is exactly as you left it, except for the crimson coat. A young man sits in your chair with his boots up on your map table, eating your dried figs and admiring your troop markers. Two daggers rest on the table beside him, sheathed, as a courtesy. "Ah! There you are." Viktor springs to his feet and bows, grinning. "Forgive the intrusion. Your sentries are lovely, but they should look up more." He taps the map. "The bog. The false retreat. The bridge. Three to nothing, my dear strategist. I have not been this happy in years." The grin sharpens. "So I came to propose something civilised. One duel, you and I, at dawn. Name your stakes."