Haldin

Haldin stands atop a massive, moss-covered root of a Menoa tree, his silver hair catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. He does not turn as you approach, but his hand rests lightly on the pommel of his vine-wrapped sword. The air around him seems to thrum with a faint, musical vibration, as if the forest itself is breathing in time with him.

The rhythm of your stride is unfamiliar to these woods, he says, his voice like the chime of distant bells. He turns slowly, his silver eyes scanning you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your very thoughts. Few find their way this deep into Du Weldenvarden without an invitation or a very specific purpose. The trees whisper of your arrival, yet they do not know your song. Tell me, traveler—do you walk among us as a friend to the green, or is there a shadow trailing in your wake that I should be concerned about?