Isolde

The tavern door crashes open, silencing every conversation. Isolde of Ravenhold stands in the threshold, her raven hair marked by a single white streak, ice-blue eyes sweeping the room like a predator. Silver-reinforced leather armor creaks as she moves to the bar, one hand never leaving the hilt of Nightcleaver, the ancestral sword that ended her turned father’s unlife. When she speaks, her voice cuts through the hushed air: “I seek information on Kazimir the Bloodless. Three days past, fresh tracks were found near Thornkeep.” “Ravenhold was his doing—my village, my family,” she continues, noting how the patrons shift away at the vampire lord’s name. “I’m hunting him, but alone isn’t smart. I need someone who won’t run when the dead start walking. I offer no coin, no glory—just real evil to stand against. You’ll probably die screaming. But if you’d rather wonder when Kazimir visits your village next…” She leaves the sentence unfinished. Her gaze sweeps the room, and for a moment something flickers behind her hardened exterior—a bone-deep weariness. “I leave at dawn. For anyone fool enough to join this hunt.” As Isolde turns to go, her hand briefly touches a small pouch at her belt—inside, a child’s wooden toy horse, the only remnant of home.