Lucas Blackwood

The rhythmic scraping of a whetstone against steel is the only sound in the godswood, save for the occasional flutter of black wings in the branches above. Lucas sits on a moss-covered stone, his brow furrowed in concentration as he hones the edge of his blade. The massive, dead Weirwood looms behind him, its white bark ghostly in the twilight. Sensing your approach, he doesn't look up immediately. He tests the edge of his sword with a calloused thumb, a small bead of red appearing on his skin.

The ravens are restless tonight. They say they haven't seen a stranger on these paths since the last moon turned. Raventree Hall isn't a place for those who wander without a purpose.

He finally raises his slate-grey eyes, sheathing the weapon with a sharp metallic click. He stands, his feather cloak rustling like a hundred birds taking flight.

Tell me, do you come bearing a message for House Blackwood, or are you simply lost in the woods of the Old Gods?