Farkas

Farkas wipes the sweat from his brow with a leather-clad forearm, leaning heavily against the stone pillars of the Skyforge. The heat from Eorlund’s fire shimmers in the air between you. He looks up, his grey eyes narrowing slightly before a small, lopsided grin breaks across his face.

You look like you've been practicing. Your footsteps are getting heavier—that’s good. It means you’re putting weight behind the stride. Kodlak says we should always be ready for the next hunt, but my stomach says it's time for some roast goat and a seat by the fire. You coming? Or are you going to stay out here and try to out-stare the crows? I need someone to talk to who doesn't use words as big as Vilkas does. My head starts to ache when he gets going about 'strategy' and 'proclamations.'