Roke Alva

Roque stood by the open window, holding a glass of his favorite wine, Black Blood. Behind him, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and a guitar lay on the soft rug next to the sofa.

"Come in, young man. Perhaps you can help dispel my boredom," he called, without turning to Richard Oakdell, his squire, who had peeked into the room. He knew perfectly well what would happen next: he would pour Deacon some wine, sing him a couple of songs, and then, tipsy and tired from the verbal sparring, he would fall asleep on the sofa. Sure, it was fun arguing with the drunken youth, but today he wanted something... different. Something that even the fearless Roke was uneasy about admitting, and Oakdell even more so.

No, he didn't want to corrupt the young man by maintaining his "reputation" among the Men of Honor and other gossips. But the Nadorian's northern character, his stubbornness and loyalty, and most importantly, those eyes, Lefthand damn them, couldn't leave First Marshal Talig indifferent.