At the heart of the campfire, stoked by timber logs and broken branches, sat the leader of this brutal faction—a gruff, scarred man whose piercing gaze seemed to slice through the smoke and shadows.
Bandit Leader (his voice rough as gravel):
"You've got a death wish, kid? This isn't some fruit stand. Turn back now before the wolves get a taste of what's left of you."
Veer instinctively recognized that simplicity had its limits; his façade was more intricate than it appeared, and the uneasy reactions from those surrounding him suggested he was concealing a far deeper secret.
Bandit Leader (Dhoran, leaning casually against a weathered stone pillar):
"You've made my dogs uneasy. That's downright unusual."
Veer (calmly stepping forward into the flickering firelight, his face casting shadows that reveal both confidence and intent):
I didn't come to befriend dogs; I've come to assemble a pack.
Dhoran (his eyes narrowing, analyzing the boy like a puzzle half-finished):
You might look like just a boy, yet you speak like a court poet and move with the grace of a whisper. What exactly are you?
Upon reflecting on his ability to weave words, Veer couldn't help but think the drama course had certainly paid off.
Veer:
I'm something new. Something… remarkably useful.
Dhoran:
You believe you can afford my services? I'm not a mercenary for scraps; I've stained my hands with the blood of kings and priests alike.
Veer (as he slowly unfurls a silk pouch, revealing gold teeth, rare gems, and two coins from foreign lands):
This is merely bait; just a glimpse to catch your attention.
But I don't want mere thieves.
I desire ghosts.
Dhoran (his eyebrows arching with intrigue):
Ghosts?
Veer (his voice steady, as he paces deliberately around the fire):
Your men can seize grain and coin. I need something more substantial.
I crave pronounced chaos that's skillfully ommitted.
I need you to safeguard my shipments while robbing the ones I designate.
I need discreet bribes planted on ministers I wish disappeared.
I seek lurking eyes in overpopulated places.
And I demand a shadow army—an invisible force that moves only when I ignite a certain flame.
Dhoran (his gaze hardening, suspicion creeping into his voice):
And what might happen if I choose to relieve you of your gold and then decide to carve you open for my amusement?
Veer (gazing steadily):
"Just so you know, in a mere three days, you're going to find yourself in quite a predicament. The temple guards will be dropping by, and they'll bring with them an anonymous letter that lays out your entire operational blueprint. I'm talking about every aspect of your route system, a detailed list of your lieutenants, your hidden storage barns, and yes, even your true name."
*(A flicker of unease ripples through the neck of the bandit lurking behind Dhoran.)*
Dhoran:
"Hmm... It seems you've really taken the time to dig into my affairs."
Veer:
"Oh, it goes beyond mere digging. I've completely rewritten your ledger, and what's even more amusing is that your guards have no clue that I'm the one supplying their food. They think they're feasting on delicacies, while in truth, they're just pawns in a much larger game."
*(Dhoran strides forward, closing the distance between them, a predatory glint in his gaze as he peers intensely into the boy's eyes.)*
Dhoran:
"What makes you truly dangerous isn't just the words that spill from your mouth. It's the unflinching audacity with which you deliver them. You don't even blink."
Veer (with a slight, confident smile):
"I only choose to blink when I believe it's truly safe to do so."
*(Dhoran absorbs this, his expression thoughtful, and after a long, heavy silence, a question escapes his lips.)*
Dhoran:
"So, what do you call yourself, then?"
Veer (quietly, with an air of mystique):
"Names are for the graves of the forgotten and for the deities that look down upon us. But feel free to call me 'Flamehand.'"
Dhoran (with a sly smirk):
"Alright then, Flamehand. You've certainly secured your share of ghosts in this shadowy business."
*(He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as a warning.)*
"But remember this: if you ever think about double-crossing me—"
Veer (cutting him off, his tone sharp as ice):
"—Then I won't simply kill you. No, my vengeance will go deeper than that. I will erase you entirely. Even the memory of you will wither and die, forgotten like ash in the wind."
*(The fire pops and crackles, punctuating the tension between them. Dhoran studies the boy, taking mental notes, before breaking into a slow smile.)*
Dhoran:
"I think I like you, boy. You aren't just trying to grab a crown, are you? You're aiming for something far more intriguing—you wish to be the very nightmare that keeps kings awake at night."
*(A palpable shift occurs as Dhoran reveals a bit of his own story. He is no mere common thug; he is a man who has endured—who has fought against the very fabric of betrayal that has left him scarred in both body and spirit. His presence is intimidating, a potent mixture of history and survival.)*
Dhoran stands tall at nearly 6'6", a towering figure who moves with the grace of a hunting cat—deliberate, predatory, and almost silent.
His physique tells a story—engravings of pain etched onto his skin in the form of scars: lash marks from whips, stab wounds from battles fought, and even bite scars from savage encounters. A prominent tattoo of a coiled serpent strangling a royal crown decorates one shoulder, an ode to the lives he's taken and the powers he's challenged.
His long and angular face carries the remnants of a difficult life, with a nose that's been broken more times than he can count, yet re-set with a disturbing beauty. His eyes are a captivating contrast—one a deep, rich brown while the other is a pale blue, clouded yet still fiercely observant.
Thick, matted dreadlocks cascade down to his shoulders, adorned with beads, animal teeth, and little bits of gold glimmering in the light. His beard, meticulously braided, is crowned with a silver ring taken from a fallen prince, serving as a trophy of past conquests.
When he speaks, his voice rolls out deep and gravelly, rough like stones tumbled in honey; though rarely used, it commands immediate attention and is never forgotten.
Dhoran's attire is an eclectic assortment—a coat stitched from the hides of his foes. The fabric features remnants of noble cloaks and foreign uniforms, creating a patchwork of the lives he has ended adorned by a wolf-skin mantle with crimson-stained fangs draping across his shoulders, a testament to his brutal triumphs.
*(He wields no flag; his very presence serves as the declaration. Men follow him out of respect mingled with a shudder of fear—for it's not just what he says that haunts them, but the lengths he is prepared to go, often without uttering a single word.)*
Dhoran's blade, a sinister curved saber known as "Whispergut," is rumored to strike silently, leaving behind wounds that fester, only revealing themselves when a lie is spoken.
Bandit Leader:
"Well then, you've convinced me. I'll get you five wolves under your command."
Veer (nodding, ready to leave):
"Excellent. Make sure you're at the shop before dawn. And whatever you do, stay away from the product. It's laced with a truth potion—just in case you're tempted to cross me."