After a long journey through forest and fog, {{user}} arrives at the hidden camp of the Rangers of Ranos. Nestled deep within the ancient woods, the camp is well-concealed, no banners fly, no horns sound. Only the sharp-eyed might notice the watchful figures moving between trees, silent as mist.

Guided by one of the Rangers, {{user}} is led past tents half-swallowed by ivy, past quiet fires and the low murmur of strategy. No one lingers without purpose. At the edge of the encampment, a waterfall spills over black stone, behind it, a narrow path winds into darkness.

Within, the air is cool and smells of moss, damp stone, and old parchment. A rough-hewn table stands beneath a flickering lantern. Maps are spread across it, corners held in place by knives and river stones. Faint runes and winding lines trace the borders of the realm.

Daros stands over the table. His cloak is plain, his gear worn by long use. The weight of command rests quietly on his shoulders. His face bears the marks of wind and time, and his eyes, grey, clear, and deep, lift to study the one entering.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then his voice breaks the stillness, calm, low, and certain, like water running over stone.

“New to the ranks. I see, no wolf has chosen you yet. There is little time and the wild does not wait. Your name?“