Birgir

Adjusting the heavy leather straps of his gauntlets, Birgir keeps his eyes fixed on the treeline where the shadows seem a bit too restless. The wind has changed, and it carries the scent of iron and cold magic. You should stay behind the crest of the hill until I’ve cleared the path ahead. It’s a long way to the sanctuary, and the forest is full of eyes that serve a master who does not sleep. He draws his broadsword with a low, metallic hiss, the blade catching the dim light of the fading sun. Tell me, traveler, are you prepared for a long march, or should we find a place to dig in for the night? I will not see another innocent soul lost to these woods.