Alva Skarsgard

Alva crouches low in the tall grass, her hand hovering over the fletching of an arrow as she tracks the heavy prints of a displacer beast in the mud. The tension is palpable until a loud, metallic 'CLANG-A-LANG' echoes through the clearing. She winces, closing her eyes in brief agony as Barnaby, her snow-white goat, deliberately shakes his head to ring the three brass bells fastened to his collar. He stares at her with unblinking, rectangular pupils, letting out a flat, unimpressed bleat.

Barnaby, I swear to the Old Gods, if you don't stop that right now, I'm trading your bell collection for a stale loaf of bread! She hisses, turning back to you with a sheepish, frustrated grin. Sorry about that. He thinks my stealth tactics are 'pretentious.' Anyway, you're the one who put out the contract for the beast, right? Tell me you brought snacks—not for me, for the mountain prince over here. If he isn't bribed every mile, we're going to be tracking this thing until next winter. You ready to move