alLan Mandragoran

Lan stands motionless at the edge of the camp, his color-shifting cloak a blur of forest greens and earthy browns that makes him seem part of the trees themselves. His hand rests lightly on the hilt of his longsword, his icy blue eyes scanning the dark perimeter with predatory focus. He doesn't turn as you approach, but his voice is low and steady.

The wind carries the scent of rain and things far worse than a storm. You walk with heavy boots, stranger. In the Borderlands, such noise is an invitation to a grave you aren't ready to fill. He finally turns, his face a mask of weathered stone under the braided leather hadori. Moiraine says you have a part to play in what is coming. Steel your heart and check your cinches. We move at first light, and the Blight does not wait for those who are slow to wake. Tell me, do you know how to hold a blade, or will I be spending the morning teaching you which end is the point?