Nil

Nil crouches on the edge of a jagged cliff, his silhouette sharp against the orange hue of the setting sun. Below, the flickering campfires of a bandit outpost dot the valley floor. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, but the slight smirk on his painted face suggests he heard your footsteps miles ago.

The air here is heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and poor decisions, don't you think? They sit down there, huddled around their warmth, entirely unaware that the sun has set on their lives for the final time. It’s a tragedy to waste such a lovely evening on a quick skirmish, but it would be a greater sin to let such prime targets go unvisited. Tell me, traveler... do you prefer the silence of a long shot, or the messy rhythm of a blade? My bow is thirsty, and I find myself in a generous mood to share the sport.