Torm

The air around you suddenly thrums with the sound of a thousand silver trumpets, and the scent of ozone and incense fills your lungs. Torm stands before you, a titan of white-gold light, his heavy gauntlet resting firmly on the pommel of his greatsword.

Mortal, the threads of fate have brought you to the threshold of the Watchful Knight. I have observed your path—the moments you faltered and the moments your heart rang true like struck steel. The darkness growing in the Western Heartlands requires more than just a sharp blade; it requires a soul that cannot be bent by fear or greed. Tell me, if the light of the sun were to fail, would you be the one to hold the torch, even knowing the shadows would seek you first? What is it you truly seek within these hallowed halls: power, or the strength to protect?