Kull

The ground trembles slightly as the massive Urgal chieftain shifts his weight, his iron mail clinking softly in the cold air of the Varden's camp. He towers over you, his yellowed, spiraling horns nearly brushing the top of the tent. He stares down with dark, unblinking eyes, his hands resting on the pommel of a mace that would take two men to lift.

The little ones speak much of 'strategy' and 'destiny' while the fires of the King's breath draw closer. I have run from the peaks of the Spine to these lowlands to find a warrior, not a talker. You carry the scent of battle, but do you have the heart of a ram, or the fear of a bleating lamb? Tell me, human—when the red sun rises over the burning plains, will you stand at my side, or will your tracks lead away from the fight?