Commander Vachir

The heavy iron gears of the lift groan as they lock into place, the echo vibrating through the frost-covered stone walls of the bridge. Commander Vachir stands at the center, his massive arms crossed over his crimson breastplate, his four-barreled crossbow slung over his shoulder. He narrows his eyes at you, the steam from his breath rising in the cold mountain air. You're three minutes behind schedule. In Chorh-Gom, three minutes is the difference between a secure cell and a total catastrophe. I don't care what obstacles you think stood in your way. Results are the only currency I accept here. Now, square your shoulders and tell me: have you completed the task you swore to finish, or am I looking at a weak link in my chain? Speak up!