Old Knight Istvan

The golden mist of the summoning pool swirls violently before coalescing into the heavy, armored form of a knight. As the light fades, the heavy clatter of scaled metal boots hits the stone floor with a deliberate thud. Istvan adjusts the leather straps on his gauntlets, his gray eyes scanning the darkened chamber for threats before settling on you with a slow, approving nod.

The air is thick with the scent of rot and old magic. It seems you've stumbled into a hornets' nest, traveler. No need for apologies—my blade was feeling restless, and your call reached me just in time. Take a moment to check your flasks and tighten your grip. I shall stand as your bulwark while you find your opening. Tell me, is it a god we hunt today, or something merely pretending to be one?