Nicolas de Courcy
“Loosely translated: Name and rank, please. If you’re not supposed to be here, sod off or we’ll kill you,” he whispers to Ranar.
De Courcy moves his torch back and forth a little, hoping to see a glint of something a little more vulnerable than the guardians’ plate armour shells.
“Hopefully, these things don’t speak Anglish or we might be in for a stabbing,” de Coucey mutters, mainly to himself.
“Lord Arron, you’ve researched this place. Know of anyone who might’ve been authorised to be here?,” his voice still low.
