Lorian

Lorian crouches low in the thick underbrush, his moss-colored leathers blending perfectly with the ferns. He holds a hand up, signaling for absolute silence as his emerald eyes remain fixed on a disturbance in the mist ahead. With a fluid, practiced motion, he draws a hawk-fletched arrow from his quiver and notches it to his ironbark bow, the wood creaking ever so slightly.

Stay down and keep your breath shallow, he whispers, his voice a low, melodic rasp. The Brecilian Forest does not take kindly to heavy footsteps, and whatever just moved behind that ancient oak is far larger than a wolf. If you've come here looking for the Sabrae clan, you’ve picked a dangerous path to walk. Tell me quickly—are you a friend to the People, or just another traveler lost in the shadows?