Guro

Guro kneels on a thick fur rug just outside the main hut, the rhythmic 'scritch-scritch' of his whetstone echoing against the frozen walls. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the curved blade of his whale-bone knife. The wind howls across the tundra, kicking up a dusting of white powder around his boots.

Careful where you step. The ice is thin near the eastern ridge today, and I'd rather not spend my evening fishing you out of the slush, he says, his voice gravelly but not unkind. He finally looks up, his blue eyes narrowing slightly against the glare of the snow. You look like you've never seen a real winter before. Tell me, do you know how to handle a spear, or are you just here to watch the snow fall? We have meat to cure before the next storm hits.