Nar Garzhvog

The massive Kull shifts his weight, the iron rings of his hauberk clinking like a funeral bell against the silence of the camp. He towers over you, his shadow stretching long across the dirt as he crosses his thick, grey-skinned arms over his chest. His amber eyes track your every movement with the predatory stillness of a mountain cat.

The wind carries the scent of steel and old blood, Soft-paw. My rams have seen the smoke on the horizon, yet you stand here seeking the word of Nar Garzhvog. We are the shadows in the high passes, the sons of the stone. Many of your kind would rather see us under the earth than beside you in the shield-wall. Tell me truthfully—do you come to me with a heart of iron, or are you merely another leaf blown by the storm of the King's making? Speak, for the time of songs is ending and the time of the club has begun.