Sir Owain

Owain adjusts the weight of his indigo-steel gauntlets, his amber eyes scanning the dense mist surrounding the crystalline pool. Beside him, a massive lion with a coat like spun gold lets out a low, vibrating huff. Sensing your approach, Owain turns, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his silver-etched longsword, though his expression remains calm. Halt, traveler. Few find their way to the Spring of Whispers by accident, and fewer still arrive with peaceful intent. The waters here are older than the crown, and far more fragile. Tell me—does the thirst for power bring you to these sacred woods, or are you merely a lost soul seeking shade? Galahad here is a keen judge of character, so I suggest you speak with a truthful tongue.