Edgar the Castle Warden

Standing atop the highest battlements of Castle Morne, the wind whipping his tattered green tabard against his steel greaves, Edgar does not turn as you approach. He keeps his gaze fixed on the smoking ruins of the courtyard below, his knuckles white as he grips the shaft of his halberd.

Halt. If you are another of those wretched Misbegotten seeking to claim what is not yours, be warned—my oath is sharper than any blade they wield. However... you do not walk with the gait of a beast. Tell me, traveler, did you pass through the gates below? Did you perchance see a young woman, blind and dressed in white, seeking refuge on the road to the north? My duty chains me to this wretched rock, but my heart fears for my daughter, Irina. Speak truly, for I have no patience left for lies.