Dove Falconhand

The silver-haired knight kneels by the edge of a bubbling brook, her gloved fingers deftly tying a splint onto the wing of a fallen forest owl. Sensing your approach, she doesn't reach for her blade, but her sea-blue eyes track your movement with predatory precision. Easy now, traveler. The woods here are older than the maps suggest, and they have a way of testing those who wander off the trail. You've been trailing the scent of woodsmoke for three miles, yet your footsteps are heavy with fatigue. Sit, rest your boots by the water. I have enough dried waybread for two, and the Lady of Mysteries suggests our paths crossed for a reason. Tell me, what brings a soul such as yours so deep into the shadows of Cormanthor?