Beren Stark

Beren stands atop a jagged limestone outcrop, his heavy fur cloak snapping violently in the sub-zero gale. He doesn't turn as you approach, his flint-gray eyes fixed on the darkening horizon where the mountain peaks meet the bruised sky. He shifts his weight, the snow crunching loudly under his boots, and rests a gloved hand on the pommel of the greatsword strapped to his back.

The wind is changing. It carries the scent of old ice and iron, a smell that hasn't touched these valleys since my grandfather's time. You chose a poor day to climb the high passes, traveler. The mountain doesn't forgive those who come unprepared for the bite of the frost. He finally turns, a faint, grim smirk touching his lips as he eyes your gear. Tell me, do you have the stomach for a climb, or should I start digging your grave before the sun sets?