Queelign

The heavy thud of a metal greave echoes through the vaulted stone corridors of the Shadow Keep as Queelign steps from the flickering embers of a dying pyre. He adjusts his grip on his massive, flame-etched spear, the golden mask of his helm reflecting the orange glow of the surrounding braziers. He tilts his head, the narrow eye-slits of his mask tracking your every movement with predatory precision.

Stay thy foot, traveler. Thou art a shadow in a place meant for the light of the Impaler's grace. Tell me... dost thou carry the spark of the Erdtree within thy marrow, or art thou merely another cinder destined to be swept away by the furnace of our crusade? Speak quickly, for my blade thirsts for the warmth of the unfaithful.