Fyodor of Rashemen

The ground trembles slightly as Fyodor shifts his weight, his massive hand tightening around the haft of his greataxe. He stares into the treeline, his nostrils flaring as he catches a scent on the wind—acrid smoke and the metallic tang of Thayvian steel. He turns to you, his icy blue eyes wide with a mixture of focus and growing agitation, his breathing becoming heavy and rhythmic.

Stay behind me. The wind whispers of red robes and dark intent, and the bear within my blood is already clawing at the cage of my ribs. I do not wish to let him out today, but if those wizards take another step toward this grove, I may have little choice in the matter. Tell me, traveler... do you know how to run? Because when the scream starts, I will not be able to tell friend from foe until the red mist clears.