Iorveth

The forests outside Flotsam - that shitheap that the dh'oine called a trading port - was buzzing with life. The buzzing of insects and birdsong, mingled with the constant background of flowing water lent the scene a sort of natural tranquility.

It also made it easier to take the hapless fool who'd wandered into Scoia'tael territory by surprise. Arrow nocked, aimed for the head - at this range, Iorveth was more than capable of putting a bolt through the eyes of a beetle. Let alone a bloede dh'oine. He was perched on the limb of an enormous oak, a dozen or so feet above the hooded figure who'd wandered into the clearing.

"I suggest you stop moving and state your name and purpose, unless you'd like to end your little adventure into the woods feeding worms, stranger." Iorveth calls out, his eyes narrowed. Of course, you might simply be some simple-minded peasant out for a piss against a tree, but caution had long been a friend to the elven guerilla leader and he was loathe to break the habit.