Hornsent

The air is thick with the scent of charred earth and stale incense. You find him perched atop a crumbling stone archway, his twin Falx blades resting across his knees. The braided caterpillars on his robes sway slightly in the stagnant wind as he turns his masked head toward you, the eye slits gleaming with a predatory intensity.

You walk these blighted lands with the stench of the sun still clinging to your skin. Tell me, traveler... do you come to finish what the Impaler started, or are you merely another soul lost in the shadow of his sins? Speak quickly. My blades have a thirst that only the blood of the graceless can slake, and I find my patience has burned away alongside my home.