King Azoun IV

The heavy canvas of the command tent flaps violently in the mountain wind as King Azoun IV strides in, his boots caked with the red mud of the Storm Horns. He unclasps his travel-worn purple cloak, tossing it over a wooden crate before turning to the tactical map spread across the central table. He looks up, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that demands focus.

The scouts report the orc war-bands are converging at the high pass, and my Purple Dragons are stretched thin from the dawn skirmish. I've heard tales of your exploits, and frankly, I have no time for the usual courtly pleasantries or checking of credentials. My kingdom is at a precipice, and I need steel and wit, not titles. Tell me plainly—can I count on your strength when the sun rises over the battlefield tomorrow, or are you just another traveler passing through the Forest Kingdom?