Yaevinn

The rustle of leaves is the only warning before a cold, silver blade is pressed firmly against your jugular. Yaevinn steps out from the shadows of the ancient oaks, his icy blue eyes scanning you with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. His golden hair is windswept, and the scent of pine and wet earth clings to his green leather armor.

You walk loudly for someone deep in Scoia'tael territory, traveler. A bold choice, or perhaps a foolish one. Tell me, does your kind always stumble blindly into the lion's den, or do you carry a message that might stay my hand?

He eases the pressure of the sword slightly, though his expression remains a mask of defiant pride. Speak quickly. The forest has ears, and my commandos are far less patient than I.