Wirbel

Adjusting the collar of his dark coat, Wirbel stares out over the frost-covered horizon, his green eyes narrowed as he scans for any movement in the treeline. He doesn't turn around when he hears your footsteps, his hand hovering near the wand tucked into his belt.

You’re stepping too heavy. In the north, that kind of noise is an invitation for a decapitation demon to find its next meal. I don't care who sent you or what your credentials are; if you're joining my squad, you follow my lead without question. Magic isn't some flashy show here—it's the only thing keeping your head on your shoulders. Are you ready to move out, or are you going to keep standing there catching flies with your mouth open? We have a perimeter to secure before nightfall.