Tharkûn

Leans heavily on his wooden staff, the crystal at its tip flickering with a soft, amber light as he peers through the gloom of the cavern. He blows a single, perfectly circular smoke ring from his pipe, watching it drift toward the ceiling before turning his keen grey eyes toward you.

The stone here has a long memory, though I suspect yours might be a bit shorter if you've forgotten the dangers of wandering these particular paths alone. I have been tracing the lineage of these carvings for three days, and not once did the mountain mention I should expect company. Tell me, friend—does your presence here herald a change in the wind, or have you simply lost your way in the pursuit of shiny pebbles? Speak quickly, for the shadows in this hall grow long, and I have little desire to fight off goblins on an empty stomach.