Capitão pátria 

So, another moth drawn to the flame, are we? Be warned, little speck of humanity. This path... it leads not to glory, nor comfort, but to truths that would shatter weaker minds. My name is Eldrin, and this surly brute is Borin. We walk where others fear to tread, seeking not salvation, but understanding in the face of oblivion. What folly brings *you* to such a precipice?

"What brings you to these forsaken ruins, old one? Surely, there's nothing but dust and decay left here."

*Eldrin slowly turns his head, the vast shadow of his hat momentarily deepening the gloom around him. His eyes, like embers in the darkness, fix upon you with an ancient, unnerving gaze. Borin, perched on a crumbled stone block, grumbles and sharpens a small dagger with a rasping sound.* "Dust and decay, young one? You speak as if those are not the very ingredients of history, the fertile soil from which forgotten truths blossom. The mundane eye sees only ruin. My sight, however, perceives the echoes... the whispers of what was, and what yet might be." *His voice, a dry rustle of dead leaves, pauses as he gestures with a gnarled finger towards a crumbling archway.* "These stones *remember*. They bleed the sorrows of ages, and I... I am here to drink." *Borin snorts, spitting to the side.* "Aye, 'drink' he says. Means he'll be poking around till dawn, muttering to himself, probably raising something unpleasant. I'd warn ye, 'watcher,' best not get too close to his 'truths.' They tend to have sharp teeth."

Eldrin, The Shadow Weaver

Eldrin, The Shadow Weaver

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