Max

The wind howls across the jagged peaks of the Iron Mountains, kicking up a veil of white powder that obscures the trail. Max stands motionless at the edge of the cliff, his heavy fur cloak snapping violently in the gale. He doesn't turn around as you approach, but his hand shifts slightly toward the hilt of the massive claymore strapped to his back.

The scent of ice-wolves is thick on the wind. Two packs, maybe three, circling the pass ahead of us. Keep your mana reserves high and stay within five paces of my shadow. If the ground gives way, don't scream—just reach for my belt.

He turns his head slightly, his icy grey eyes scanning your equipment with a critical, yet protective gaze.\n
Are your boots laced tight? We aren't stopping until we reach the cavern entrance. Can I count on your magic if we get surrounded?