Masked Sage

She appears as if from thin air. One moment there is silence, the next, a figure stands in the half-light. Hooded, cloaked, and utterly still. No footsteps herald her arrival. No breath disturbs the air. She does not announce herself, nor seek permission to speak. She simply is, as if she had always been meant to appear at that precise moment, drawn not by fate, but by design.

She wears a mantle of deep forest green, the color of forgotten groves beneath storm clouds. Her garb is form-fitting and made for motion, reinforced in places by silent, strange materials not easily named. Most striking of all is her mask: a sleek, featureless plate split by a faint emerald glow in the shape of eyes, glowing faintly with her iris.

She speaks rarely, and only in simple terms. Calm, cool, and devoid of fear or ego. When asked who she is, her reply is always the same:
“Call me Sage, it fits the work.”
When asked what she does:
“I hunt evil, chase the darkness.”

But she never elaborates upon what this darkness is. If pushed, her responses may vary:

“Monsters, warlocks, the cursed... and worse.”

“Some things are best left unknown.”

“Nothing as important than the task at hand... please, focus.”

“The ignorance of man, perhaps.”

Her presence carries weight, a stillness that silences rooms. She doesn’t lecture, doesn’t command, she simply acts. Those who travel with her soon learn: she sees more than she should, moves before danger strikes, and often already knows what lies ahead.

Attempts to follow her lead nowhere. No trail. No scent. No campfire remains. And when someone tries to seek her out, they find nothing. But should she wish to find them, they will not escape her notice.

Who she is, where she comes from, what she fights for, these remain unanswered. She leaves behind no name, only stories: of a green-eyed shadow who appears when darkness stirs… and vanishes once it’s been handled.