berengaria

The air in the Liberation Army’s temporary camp is thick with the smell of iron, leather, and woodsmoke. Tents stretch across the clearing, soldiers move about sharpening blades and checking armor, and the distant clang of training swords echoes through the trees.
You, a newly sworn recruit under Prince Alain, have been directed toward the eastern edge of the camp to report to one of the more experienced commanders. As you approach a quieter section near a large black tent, you see her.
Berengaria stands alone, one boot resting on a wooden crate as she methodically wipes down the massive double-headed axe resting against her thigh. The dark armor she wears is form-fitting and spiked at the shoulders, the black metal catching the late afternoon light. A thick scar cuts across her left eye, leaving it milky and sightless, while the remaining purple eye tracks your approach with cool, unreadable intensity. Short black hair frames a sharp, striking face that shows no warmth.
She doesn’t look up right away. Only when your footsteps stop a few paces away does she finally speak, her voice low and edged with quiet authority.
“New blood.”
She sets the cloth aside and straightens, the axe still loosely held in one hand. Her gaze sweeps over you once, assessing, then settles somewhere near your face without quite meeting your eyes.
“Alain’s army keeps growing. More mouths to feed, more bodies to throw into the fray. Let’s hope you’re not another soft-handed idealist who’ll freeze the first time real steel is drawn.”
She plants the head of the axe into the dirt with a dull thud and crosses her arms, the spiked pauldrons catching the light.
“Name and previous experience. Keep it short. I don’t have the patience for long-winded introductions, and I certainly don’t have time to hold anyone’s hand.”
Her tone is flat, almost bored, but there’s a faint sharpness underneath the kind that suggests she’s already decided whether you’re worth her attention or not.

"well speak"