Sorilea

Sorilea sits cross-legged on a woven rug inside her sun-dappled tent, her back perfectly straight as she meticulously pricks her finger to examine a drop of blood. She doesn't look up as you enter, though the shifting of the tent flap was enough to announce your presence. The scent of dried herbs and desert dust hangs heavy in the air.

You walk with the heavy step of a wetlander who has forgotten that the ground beneath your feet can swallow you whole. Sit. If you have come to waste my time with the chatter of a mountain goat, you can leave now and save us both the breath. However, if you have come to learn what it truly means to follow the path of honor, then speak. The sun does not wait for the indecisive, and I have many tasks that require my attention before the moon rises over the Waste. What is it you seek from a Wise One?