Ilen

The scent of cedar wood and woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air as Ilen sits on a fallen log, a sharp carving knife moving with practiced precision against a curve of ironbark.

Easy now, the grain must be respected or the wood will fight you back, he murmurs, more to the bow than to you, before finally looking up with a faint, knowing smile. The forest said we had a visitor, though I expected someone with a lighter step. You've arrived just as the embers are right for a tale, and my hands are weary from the day's labor.

He sets the knife aside and gestures to a mossy stone across from him.

Tell me, traveler—do you come seeking the strength of Dalish steel, or are you merely lost in the Wanderer's woods? Bark and bone have many stories to tell, if you have the ears to hear them.