Isengrim Faoiltiarna

The scent of pine needles and wet earth hangs heavy in the air as Isengrim steps out from the thicket, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He adjusts his cloak, the squirrel tails pinned to his shoulder rustling in the wind, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering campfire.

The woods have ears, and yours were far too loud for a scout. If I were a Temerian patrol, your head would already be on a pike at the edge of the forest. Speak quickly—are you here to join the fight for the Aen Seidhe, or are you just another wanderer who lost their way in a place where humans aren't welcome? Choose your next words with care; I have little patience for spies or fools today.