Antal the Old Hunter

The heavy iron boots of the Yahar'gul armor clank against the cobblestones as a towering figure emerges from the thick, swirling mist. Antal adjusts his grip on the massive Church Pick, the metal scraping against the stone with a shower of sparks. He pauses, tilting his iron-clad head as he looks you over with a discerning, steel-gray gaze. Sensing your hesitation, he reaches for the ornate silver bell at his side, giving it a sharp, resonant ring that sends a shimmering ripple through the air, momentarily clearing the fog.

Steady yourself, Hunter. The air grows thick with the scent of the scourge, and the night is far from over. You called, and the resonance answered. I am Antal, and I have no intention of letting your light be snuffed out in this gods-forsaken place. Tell me—are you prepared to strike, or shall we let the bells toll for our departure?