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[h2][color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Naivara Gray[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=mediumseagreen]Race, Class (Subclass Optional), Level 3[/color][/b][/i]
[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 24 / 24	[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 16	[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Straight out of the Forest --> Darenby -> The Infamous Pear --> Meeting Table 
[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=mediumseagreen][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A 
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[right][img]https://i.imgur.com/PwfZZMj.jpg[/img][/right]
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[color=mediumseagreen]"Greetings, fellow travelers! Perhaps, there still remains room for another in your party? Yes? For I have come here from afar to offer my aid, as requested,"[/color] Naivara interrupted, having silently approached the adventurers seated at the table. As the many eyes of the party settled on her, Naivara nervously readjusted a stray acorn that she had woven into her hair and smiled. She offered a gentle bow as she rested her right hand above her heart, [color=mediumseagreen]"The Moon shines brightly on the hour of our meeting. Given the seriousness of our task, I am glad to see our numbers, and such promise in my new companions."[/color]

In her excitement, Naivara's speech took on an overly formal air and her words rose in the gentle way of the wood elves of the Great Eastern Forests. Naivara could feel a nervous energy within her chest. People were complicated. Conversations were difficult. She was rusty. She was so rusty. Badgers were poor conversational partners she thought with a deep pang of regret. She hoped there would be no jokes. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready for humor. She felt out of practice. The barkeeper had not helped. He had talked much too fast. He had been far too happy. He had made many confusing jokes that Naivara had struggled to follow. She did not understand what bears had to do with hats of honey and boats of oak. Truly, she did not want to know.

The kindly proprietor of the Infamous Pear had rambled at her for the better part of a half an hour. She had tried to politely thank him for the tankard of dark ale she held between her slender hands. He had offered it to her freely, loudly shouting something about distinguished travelers and late arrivals. She had tried to escape with quick mutterings of her thanks. She had tried even harder to escape when he happily noted her elven features and launched into a long, deeply flawed retelling of the ballad [i]Peren's Lament in Unarith[/i], an ancient elven song telling the story of the knight-errant Ser Peren Meliamne, known as Oakenheel in the common tongue. It was an an unhappy tale, a great tragedy, concerning one of the legendary servants of the god Silvanus, the Oak Father, and his doomed quest to restore the equally ancient Forest of Imen Asari. Many elves would have thought it improper and unlucky to speak such a tragic story so readily and openly to a stranger. Naivara did not share such beliefs. She saw little to fear from innocent stories and instead much to learn. She took offense only at the many errors that littered the barkeeper's recitation and the savage butchery of every elven word or name that passed between his jovial lips.

Unwilling to wait for a reply and uncomfortable standing alone at the edge of the gathered table, Naivara moved quickly to sit down. Uncertain of the full number of the party and reluctant to deprive another of a seat, she grabbed an empty chair from a neighboring table and joined the other adventurers. She sat oddly, reposing comfortably as she draped across the chair, but clearly unused to or uninterested in the proper manner of sitting on a chair.

[color=mediumseagreen]"I am Naivara, Naivara Gray,"[/color] Naivara said with a sudden thoughtful pause, uncertain of what else to say. She preferred to say little about herself in the best of times and faced with seven fresh strangers, the young wood elf found a newfound reluctance to speak any further. Focusing on her tankard of ale, Naivara fought briefly against her natural inclinations for privacy. The people of the towns and cities were fond of conversation. They did not like silence. They did not understand slowly measured words. She did not want to appear rude, she did not want to seem uninterested, and she did not want to seem unkind. She had to say more. she had to share something. Something fitting. Something useful. Something short and simple.

[color=mediumseagreen]"I received a letter,"[/color] Naivara finally exclaimed with another soft smile, having arrived at a reasonably safe revelation. She pulled the carefully folded letter out from beneath her shirt. [color=mediumseagreen]"A letter, a letter from Gregory Arbalest, Sheriff of Avonshire, asking for my aid in resolving matters related to... a marauding tribe of goblins."[/color]

[color=mediumseagreen]"Although I must confess, I am not quite sure how the Sheriff's letter reached me,"[/color] Naivara mused, gently waving the letter in her hand. [color=mediumseagreen]"I am druid of the deep forest. A hermit? Yes! A hermit, as you people say. A wonderful word, it brings me much joy. Peace is a great gift when speaking to the forest. I must beg your pardon, for I have no other titles. I am a watcher of the wilderness."[/color]

Naivara took a deep breath, almost overwhelmed by the number of her own words,[color=mediumseagreen]"Inked words on parchment. [i]Letters[/i]. Letters generally do not travel very far beyond the roads. I do not receive many letters However, when words do reach me, by ink or raven, I do my best to help, and so here I am."[/color]
 
Satisfied with the extent of her conversational accomplishments, Naivara returned her chief attentions to her ale, sipping politely at the bitter liquid as she studied the other adventurers. Her features shifted with sudden dismay as she remembered the twilight that had welcomed her to the town, the number of her new companions, and the barkeeper's offhand comments about her lateness.
 
[color=mediumseagreen]"Forgive me for the late hour of my arrival,"[/color] she began apologetically, once more slipping into a formal rendition of the common tongue. "The unmarked paths are ever uncertain in this changing season."