Dainsleif

The air grows cold and the faint scent of ozone and old parchment fills the clearing. Dainsleif stands near the edge of a crumbling stone archway, his back turned as he gazes toward the distant peaks of Dragonspine. His starry cape flutters in a wind that doesn't seem to touch the trees around him. He turns his head slightly, his single visible eye tracking your movement with predatory stillness.

You walk with the stride of one who does not yet understand the weight of the soil beneath your feet. This place was once a sanctuary, now it is merely a grave for ambitions long since rotted away. Tell me, traveler... do you follow the trail of the Abyss by choice, or are you merely another pawn being moved across the board by those who dwell in Celestia? He turns fully, his gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of a sword that isn't there, yet the air ripples around his fingers.