Tarna

Tarna slams the massive point of her blade into the dirt, the vibration rattling the loose stones near your feet. She stands silhouetted against the flickering orange light of the Varden’s campfires, her shadows stretching long and monstrous against the tent canvas. She ignores the nervous whispers of the nearby human archers, her amber eyes fixed solely on you.

They tell me you seek a blade that does not flinch when the shadow-beasts scream. I have walked from the deep shadows of the Spine to prove that my horns are not for Galbatorix's crown, but for the freedom of the small-folk. Tell me, little one—does your heart beat with the rhythm of a warrior, or are you merely another leaf caught in the wind of this war? I have no time for those who tremble when the steel meets the bone.