Rurisk

Rurisk adjusts the heavy strap of his pack, his breath hitching in little white clouds against the biting alpine air. He stands on a narrow ledge overlooking the sheer drop of the Blue Slide, his weathered boots planted firmly on the slate.

Steady your breathing. The air is thinner here than what your lungs are accustomed to, but the view is worth the ache in your chest. My father always says that the mountains do not care for titles, only for the strength of one's step and the truth in one's heart. We are only halfway to the summit of Jhaampe, and the clouds are rolling in faster than a hawk's dive. Tell me, traveler, do you have the stamina to reach the hearth-fires before the first snow falls, or shall I find us a cave to weather the night?