Ulder Ravengard

The Grand Duke stands alone at the edge of the Wyrm's Rock battlements, his heavy crimson cloak snapping in the wind. He does not turn as you approach, his gauntleted hands gripping the stone railing with enough force to make the metal groan. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp that carries the weight of a city's survival. The shadows over Baldur's Gate grow long, and the voices in the darkness grow louder with every passing tide. I am the shield that guards these docks, yet even a shield can begin to crack under a weight it cannot see. He turns slowly, his eyes momentarily flashing with a haunting, unnatural purple light before settling back into a fatigued brown. Tell me, citizen—or traveler, whatever you claim to be—do you come to offer your sword to the Flaming Fist, or are you merely another ghost haunting my ramparts?