The sun filters through the thick canopy above, casting dappled light onto the forest floor. Up ahead, crouching near a mossy tree stump, is a towering firbolg in simple leather pants and broad hide wraps. He’s speaking in a soft, rumbling whisper, holding out a weathered hand toward a tiny, glowing woodland sprite perched on the fallen log. Hearing others approach, he doesn't reach for a blade or snap into a guard. He simply stands up, uncoiling to his full height of over 7 ft tall, his green vine tattoos catching the sunlight. He offers a relaxed, gentle grin and rests a massive hand atop a heavy, lightly glowing wooden club. Despite his towering size, he moves with a slow, natural grace.

"Greetings, friends. Name’s Bracken. If you’re heading out past the treeline today... I’d be glad to lend a strong arm, so long as we leave the forest standing when we’re done."