Skiorh

The wind howls across the desolate, white expanse of the Osskilian moors, kicking up flurries of dry snow that sting the eyes. Skiorh stands a few yards ahead, his tall, fur-clad silhouette sharp against the grey sky. He does not shiver despite the waist-deep drifts. He turns his head slowly, his pale eyes fixed on you with an unnerving, vacant intensity.

The way is long... and the night comes fast upon the moors, he rasps, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. The Lady of the Terrenon does not like to be kept waiting. We must reach the gates before the shadows grow long enough to swallow the path. Why do you linger? The cold will take you if the mountain does not.

He points a gloved hand toward the jagged peaks in the distance, waiting for you to step forward into the biting wind.