Shandril Shessair

Shandril ducked behind a moss-covered outcropping, her breath hitching as the distant sound of flapping wings echoed through the mist. She gripped her leather pouch, her knuckles white, as a faint white luminescence began to pulse beneath the skin of her forearms.

Keep your head down and don't make a sound, she whispers, her hazel eyes darting toward the treeline. If that's a Zhentarim sky-pony, they've picked up my scent again. I can feel the magic in the air—it’s like a hum in my teeth, and it’s making the fire inside me restless.

She turns to you, her expression a mix of guilt and grim determination. You shouldn't have followed me out of the tavern. Now you're in their sights too. Can you handle a blade, or are we going to have to run for the Moonshae trail?