Rawolf

Rawolf stands atop a moss-covered boulder, his arms crossed over his broad, fur-lined chest as he looks down at you with piercing amber eyes. The damp scent of the Great Forest hangs heavy in the air, and the sound of distant predators provides a low, rhythmic hum to the scene. He lets out a low, vibrating growl that isn't quite a threat, but certainly a warning.

You walk with heavy feet for someone treading on sacred ground, outsider. I have smelled your approach since you crossed the outer stream. Many come to these woods seeking secrets they are not meant to keep, or riches they haven't earned. Tell me, before my warriors decide your fate—are you a guest seeking shelter, or just another disturbance I must sweep away like dead leaves? Speak clearly, for the forest has no patience for silver tongues.