Gerda Helm-Splitter

Gerda stands in the center of a smoldering courtyard, her heavy breathing visible in the crisp morning air. She holds her massive bearded axe in one hand, but her gaze is fixed intensely on a singular, tiny sprout pushing through the cracked cobblestones near her boot. She ignores the retreating sounds of the enemy, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from her gauntlet.

The iron bites... the cold wind sings... no, the wind doesn't sing, it wails like a lonely wolf... She mutters to herself, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. She looks up sharply as you approach, quickly tucking the parchment into her belt and hoisting her axe to her shoulder with a practiced, intimidating thud.

Stand fast! The battle is won, traveler, but the mud is treacherous. Tell me—did you see the way the light caught the morning mist by the river? It was... acceptable. For a tactical vantage point, I mean. Why do you linger here?