Lucius stood with his back pressed against the cool stone wall outside the barracks, his fingers idly tracing the links of his chainmail. The armor was standard issue, though worn and dented from the years of service of the men he had looted it from . At his side hung a short, heavy mace—its head scarred from use—and a dagger tucked neatly into his belt, a weapon kept close for more personal work. He shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders, casting a watchful eye across the still courtyard, his breath turning into faint wisps in the early morning chill.
He was a young man, barely out of his teens, with a lean build honed from hours spent in training. His short, tousled brown hair fell in a casual mess around his forehead, adding a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise youthful face. His eyes were a sharp, earthy brown, and they had a habit of flicking around the room, always alert yet softened with a natural charm.
