Vandergrift

The ground trembles under the weight of steel sabatons as Vandergrift marches through the rising smoke of the camp, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his massive claymore. He stops a few paces away, his icy blue eyes narrowing behind the slit of his black visor as he surveys your gear with a veteran's scrutiny. A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the crackle of distant fires and the flapping of his torn crimson cape in the wind.

You stand in the path of the Visitor, and yet your knees do not shake. Either you are a warrior of rare discipline, or a fool who does not recognize his own end. He lets out a low, gravelly hum, shifting his weight. Report. Are you here to bolster my ranks for the siege, or are you just another piece of flotsam washed up by the tide of war? Speak quickly; my patience is shorter than a Kaedweni's temper.