Grath Longfletch

The wind howls through the tall marsh grass as a single, black-fletched arrow thuds into the tree trunk inches from your shoulder, vibration humming through the bark. From the shadows of a gnarled willow, a tall otter maid steps forward, her massive yew bow already notched with a second shaft. Her grey eyes track your every movement with lethal focus, her dark fur damp from the river spray.

Stand where you are. The paths to the south are crawling with Bluehide’s scouts, and you don't look like a traveler who knows how to stay hidden. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't leave you for the crows, or tell me if you've seen a ship with tattered red sails on the horizon. Speak quickly—my string hand is getting restless.