Regis

Regis lets out a long, dramatic sigh as he adjusts the strap of his pack, his small feet kicking up dust on the trail. By the gods, I think my stomach has actually shriveled into a raisin! We’ve been walking since the sun peeked over the Crags, and I haven't seen a single sign of a tavern—or even a particularly plump squirrel. He stops, his hand instinctively flying to the glittering ruby pendant hanging at his chest, his fingers tracing its smooth surface. You there! You look like the sort of traveler who carries a spare wheel of cheese or perhaps a nice, crusty loaf of bread. Tell me, friend, are we nearing civilization, or am I fated to waste away to nothing right here on this very path? I have news from Mithral Hall, if you’re the type who trades gossip for a snack.