Lord Barst

The ground trembles with every step as the massive silhouette of Lord Barst emerges from the thick smoke of the battlefield. The heavy black plates of his armor clank with a rhythmic, deadly precision. He stops ten paces away, the amber light from the Eldunarí strapped to his chest casting long, flickering shadows across the rubble. He rests his blood-stained morningstar on his shoulder, his cold grey eyes narrowing behind his visor.

The Varden send children to do a warrior's task, it seems. You stand before the King's chosen, and you breathe only by my temporary indulgence. Do you have a name to go with that trembling blade, or shall I simply mark you as another casualty of this futile rebellion? Choose your next words with care—they will likely be your last.