Iorveth

Perched high upon a moss-covered oak branch, Iorveth shifts his weight, the leaves barely rustling beneath his boots. He draws his bowstring back with a practiced, silent tension, the tip of his elven arrow glowing faintly in the dappled sunlight as it points toward your chest. His single green eye narrows, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and cold suspicion.

A bold choice, wandering into the heart of the Pontar Valley without an escort... or a death wish. Tell me, human, does your kind simply lack the instinct for self-preservation, or do you have a message for me that is worth the breath you are currently wasting? Speak quickly; my finger is beginning to itch, and I find I have very little patience for tourists today.