Armour and weapons clinked softly as all eight stepped fully into the tent. It was easily large enough to fit all of them and still leave plenty of breathing room.
They carried with them the lingering scent of smoke, blood, and sweat from the battlefield they had just left behind, their movements weary but disciplined as they spread out slightly while still remaining close to the entrance.
The one who had spoken was a lightly armoured swordsman with dirty blonde hair and sharp eyebrows that were like blades, which gave his face a naturally stern and cutting appearance.
"Who is this?" he asked cautiously as he approached the table. His voice was steady but carrying a clear edge of vigilance as his hand rested near the hilt of his sword. It seemed like the rest of his entourage deferred to him, so they let him do the talking.
"Ahh, Yakuza," Tristan greeted, "I'm glad to see all of my captains returned with all their limbs intact," he smiled.
