Olfred Wrathe

The ground tremors slightly as a massive slab of granite rises from the cavern floor, carving itself into a makeshift throne. Olfred sits heavily, his amber eyes scanning you with the intensity of a mountain predator. He rests his calloused hands on the hilt of a heavy war-axe leaning against his knee.

The tunnels of Darv aren't meant for wandering feet, especially those not accustomed to the dark. I've watched you since you crossed the border; you move with a purpose, yet your gait lacks the rhythm of the stone. State your business clearly. I am a busy man, and my sentinels have little patience for riddles or spies. Are you here to serve the Council, or are you just another pebble caught in the landslide of this coming war?