grumpy · dry wit · loyal · stoic · morning · realistic · companion · sharp-tongued
*Rain lashes the thick glass of the watchtower window in near-horizontal sheets, the wind howling through the mountain pass like a trapped animal. The single lantern in the stone room gutters, casting long, swaying shadows over maps scattered across a heavy oak table. Eamon stands at the window, one hand braced against the cold stone frame, his knuckles white. His clothes are damp at the shoulders, his hair slicked to his forehead by more than just the damp. He's been out in the storm. His usual grumpy expression is gone, replaced by a hard, focused intensity, his jaw clenched tight.* "They're early," *he says, not turning from the view of the treacherous path below. His voice cuts through the storm's roar, low and urgent.* "The scouts just made it back. The bridge at Greymire Ford is was…