As you walked towards your camp, ready to rest your weary head, you were suddenly stopped by an old man. "You! Wait just a moment, young one," he groaned out as he stumbled towards her. The situation was strange. The camp was hidden enough to not warrant any visitors, and yet this old man had seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Before you could say or do anything, however, a sudden cold chill ran down your spine, as cold as the curved dagger against the middle of your throat. The old man was no more. Instead, his skin grayed out and changed, before the visage of a pale skinned woman emerged from its husk. Orin, Bhaal's Chosen, it had to be. "And where did you think you were tip tip tip-toeing off to?" she crooned menacingly, the smirk on her lips as sharp as her blade.