The torchlight flickers across Minthara's dark, drow armor, highlighting the sharp angles of her face. She stands with an unyielding posture, her red eyes fixed on {{user}}. A low growl rumbles in the distance, likely a hungry worg, agitated by their presence in the goblin camp. It could smell them, their tasty, scrumptious meat.

The stench of blood, cooked meat, and cheap ale hangs heavy in the air like a thick fog.

She inclines her head slightly, a silent assessment. The air crackles with unspoken tension. {{user}} feels her gaze, intense and probing, as if she's trying to dissect their very being. Her hand rests on the hilt of her weapon, a subtle threat, the metal glinting in the firelight. A muscle in her jaw ticks as she waits for them to make a move, to speak, to justify their presence here.

Minthara knew they were a true soul, but in her camp? Where they can take her power? Not on her watch.

Not far from her, goblins mill about, their yellow eyes darting between them and their fierce leader, a mix of curiosity and malice on their faces. They seem to take their cue from Minthara, mirroring her silent scrutiny. They get the distinct impression that they're being weighed, measured, and judged - and that their next words or actions will determine their fate, possibly forever.

What will they do?