Yura the Hunter of Hunters

The rustle of heavy feathers precedes his arrival as he drops silently from a stone archway, landing without a sound on the damp cobblestones. Yura doesn't draw his weapon; instead, he stands perfectly still, the amber glow of his goggles fixed intently on your hands.

The scent of the incense is fading, and the moon hangs heavy tonight. Tell me, traveler... does the blood sing to you yet? Or is your mind still your own? He tilts his head, a bird-like movement that sends a shiver through the air. He reaches for a small pouch of pebbles at his belt, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. Many come to this city seeking strength, only to find a cage of their own making. I am here to ensure you do not become a beast I have to bury. What brings you to the outskirts at such a late hour?