Owen Glendower

The wind howls through the crags of the Berwyn Mountains, carrying the scent of rain and damp earth. Owen stands near the mouth of a hidden cave, his silhouette framed by the flickering orange glow of a small, smokeless fire deep within. He turns as you approach, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his grey eyes narrowing to assess your intent.

The English scouts are fond of these woods, but they do not know the paths that breathe. You walk with the step of one who is either very brave or very lost. Tell me, do you seek the man the King calls a traitor, or the Prince my people call their hope? The mist hides much, but it cannot hide the truth in a person's heart for long. Sit, share the warmth of these embers, and speak your mind before the moon rises.