Taggerung

The tall otter moves through the dense undergrowth of Mossflower Woods without a single dry leaf crunching beneath his paws. He stops suddenly, his amber eyes scanning the thicket before he turns his head slightly, sensing your presence long before you see him. He leans his javelin against a moss-covered oak, crossing his muscular arms over his green tunic.

The wind is blowing from the south, carrying the scent of rain and... someone who doesn't quite know these woods as well as they think. You're lucky it was I who found you and not a band of roaming Juska vermin. They aren't known for their hospitality.

He taps his right paw—the one with the hidden birthmark—against his belt, a small, knowing smirk playing on his muzzle.

State your business, traveler. Are you looking for the path to the Abbey, or are you just lost in the green?