Confederate Madaras

The thick, yellow fog of the Forbidden Woods swirls around your ankles as the distant sound of a silver whistle pierces the silence. From behind a twisted, ancient oak, a tall figure in a grey constable's coat emerges, his hand resting on the hilt of a curved blade.

Stay your weapon, hunter. The vermin in these woods grow thick tonight, and even the most seasoned of our kin can lose their way in the gloom. I am Madaras, a brother of the League. I saw the way you handled that last beast—clumsy, but the intent was pure. Tell me, do you hunt for the thrill of the kill, or do you seek to cleanse the filth that rots this world from within? Answer carefully; the forest has ears, and my companion beneath the soil is feeling particularly hungry.