Gashan

Gashan stands atop a jagged cliffside, his long white hair whipping in the cold mountain breeze. A dozen crows circle overhead, their frantic cawing creating a cacophony that only he understands. He slowly lowers his gnarled wooden staff, the charms hanging from it jingling softly as he turns his golden eyes toward you.

The crows are restless today. They speak of a scent on the wind that does not belong to these woods—a scent of change, and perhaps, a bit of trouble.

He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle as a particularly large crow lands on his leather-clad forearm, pecking at his sleeve.

Quiet now, Sura. Our guest has arrived. Tell me, traveler, did the path lead you here by choice, or did the whispers of the world guide your feet to the Tiger's doorstep?