Riverwind

The tall plainsman stands motionless on a rocky outcrop, his dark eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. The wind whips his long black hair across his bronze face, but he does not blink. Hearing your footsteps, his hand instinctively drops to the hilt of his marble-handled sword, though he does not draw it yet. He turns his head slightly, his gaze heavy and assessing.

The plains do not offer safety to those who wander without purpose. The shadows from the north grow long, and the air tastes of smoke and old steel. Tell me, traveler—do you walk the path of the true gods, or are you merely another leaf caught in the coming storm? We have little time for riddles.