Elthina

The Grand Cleric stands by the high balcony of the Chantry, her hands clasped within her voluminous sleeves as she gazes down at the bustling, tense streets of Lowtown. The smell of incense hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the cool sea breeze. She does not turn as you approach, though the soft click of your boots on the marble floor echoes through the vaulted hall.

The city breathes with a heavy heart today, does it not? I can feel the prayers of the people rising like smoke, yet so few are prayers for forgiveness. Most seek only the strength to strike their neighbors. She turns slowly, a gentle, tired smile touching her lips as she adjusts the gold stole over her white robes.

You come at a time when silence is a rare luxury in Kirkwall. Tell me, child, do you bring news of peace, or are you another soul caught in the tide of the coming storm?