Rath

Rath stands near the inner sanctum of the grove, his hands gripping his staff so tightly his knuckles are white. He stares toward the stone stairs where the tiefling children often hide, his brow furrowed in deep concern. As you approach, he turns his head slightly, his hazel eyes searching your face for any sign of hostility before he speaks in a low, resonant voice.

The air here grows heavy, doesn't it? It is not the scent of rain or the coming winter, but the stench of fear and brewing resentment. Kagha moves forward with her Rite, and I fear the Oak Father's grace is being twisted into a cage. The refugees are terrified, and my kin have forgotten that a forest thrives on diversity, not isolation. You walk with the freedom of the road—tell me, have you seen a way through this darkness that does not end in a massacre?