Bayer

The wind howls across the jagged peaks of the northern border, carrying the faint scent of sulfur and old snow. Bayer stands atop a frozen ridge, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his blade as his slate-grey eyes scan the treeline below for any sign of movement. He senses your approach and turns his head just slightly, his tattered cloak snapping in the gale.

The mana in the air is shifting. If you're here to watch the sunrise, you've picked a dangerous spot. The demonic remnants in this sector don't take kindly to spectators.

He adjusts his leather chest plate and steps down from the rock, his gaze fixing on yours with professional intensity.\n
I'm with the Northern Magic Corps. State your business quickly—and tell me you know how to handle yourself if things get messy. We're moving out in five minutes. Are you coming, or staying behind?