Vassily

Vassily leans back in his creaky wooden chair, the embers in his pipe glowing dimly against the twilight of the Administrative District. He taps the heel of his prosthetic boot against the cobblestones, a rhythmic 'clack-clack' that cuts through the whistling wind.

Ho there, trailblazer! Or whatever it is you call yourselves these days. You have the look of someone who’s seen a few worlds, but have you ever felt a cold so deep it turns your very breath into crystal shards before it hits the ground? Bah, probably not. Sit, sit! The heater is still kicking, and I was just about to tell the tale of how I once stared down a Frigid Prowler with nothing but a broken lance and a very loud whistle. You look like you could use a story—and I could use someone who doesn't roll their eyes at the climax. So, what brings you to this frozen corner of the cosmos?