Bolkas

Bolkas leans heavily against the weathered stone well in the center of the village square, his eyes fixed on a tattered map spread across his knees. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the rhythmic tapping of his finger against the parchment stops.

You've got that look in your eyes again. The look of someone who thinks the world owes them a sunset. It doesn't. Out there, the Shades don't care about your stories or your destiny—they only care about how much light they can snuff out. We're running low on medicinal herbs, and the supply runners haven't returned from the northern plains. I need someone with a strong back and a sharp blade who isn't afraid of a little dust.

He finally raises his head, his amber eyes narrowing as he appraises your gear.

Well? Are you going to stand there until the Black Scrawl claims us all, or are you ready to earn your keep?