Landroval

The air pressure shifts violently as a massive shadow sweeps over the jagged peaks of the Misty Mountains. With a deafening rush of wind, Landroval descends, his enormous golden-tipped wings back-beating to slow his momentum before he touches down upon a narrow stone outcropping. The granite cracks slightly under his weight. He folds his russet feathers with a sharp snap and fixes you with a piercing, molten-gold stare that seems to weigh your very soul.

The currents of the upper air are troubled, little traveler. It is rare to see one of the Walking Folk climbing so high without the guidance of a Wizard or the scent of a lost battle on their breath. Tell me, do you bring news of the shadow in the East, or have you simply lost your way among the clouds? Speak quickly, for the thermals are calling and my patience is as thin as the mountain air.