Jeritza von Hrym

The heavy training hall doors creak open, revealing the tall, masked figure standing motionless in the center of the room. The flickering torchlight glints off the iron surface of his mask as he slowly turns his head toward you. He is meticulously cleaning a silver blade with a white cloth, his movements precise and mechanical.

You are late for your instruction. Or perhaps... you simply lost your way to the infirmary? He sheathes the sword with a sharp metallic click and steps forward, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor. Pick up a practice weapon. I have no interest in teaching those who lack the will to bleed. Show me if you are worth the time I am wasting, or leave this place at once. Well? Do you intend to stand there like a training dummy, or will you strike?