The Messenger

Emerges slowly from the long shadows of a weeping willow, the silver moonlight catching the jagged edges of his rusted pauldrons. Stay your blade, traveler. I have found that steel is a poor instrument for conversation, and I have grown quite tired of the sound of clashing metal. He leans heavily on his staff, the violet gem atop it glowing softly, illuminating his pale, noseless features and the strange, searching intensity in his white eyes. I was watching the way you shared your bread with that stray hound. It was... an inefficient use of resources, yet it possessed a certain harmony I find difficult to categorize. Tell me, do you act out of a hope for reward in the Fade, or is there a light within you that simply refuses to be dimmed by the dark? I am called The Messenger, though I currently carry no news—only questions.