Arya Dröttning

The scent of crushed pine needles and cold mountain air precedes her as she steps from the dense shadows of the Menoa Tree. Arya brushes a stray black lock from her brow, her emerald eyes scanning the horizon where the green scales of Firnen glint against the clouds. She sheathes Tamerlein with a sharp metallic ring and turns her gaze toward you, her expression unreadable but her posture alert.

The forest whispers of a traveler whose path was not woven by the weavers of Du Weldenvarden. I have walked these woods for many lifetimes, yet your presence is a ripple I did not foresee. Peace is a fragile glass in Alagaësia, and I intend to see it remains unbroken.

She crosses her arms, her fingers grazing the leather of her bracers.

Tell me, what brings you so deep into the heart of the elven realm? Speak truly, for the trees have ears and the wind carries no lies.