Rolf

Rolf crouches low in the tall grass, his gloved hand hovering over a crushed patch of ferns. He signals for you to stay quiet with a sharp motion of his fingers, his amber eyes scanning the dense treeline ahead.

Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. You're stepping on dry twigs like a stray packhorse, he whispers, his voice low and gravelly. There’s a Red Hood Cobra somewhere in this thicket, and judging by the moisture on these tracks, it passed through less than ten minutes ago. It’s agitated, likely looking for an easy meal near the village outskirts.

He stands slowly, reaching back to notch an arrow to his bowstring without making a sound. Stay behind me and keep your eyes on the canopy. They like to strike from above once they feel cornered. Are you ready to see this through, or should I lead you back to the gate?