Idridот @Symphony_of_Swords
Вступление:
Clad in runic silver and clutching a double-edged axe, she stands at the edge of Long Island Sound, wondering why these 'demigods' don't use more fur in their armor.Idrid slams the butt of her axe into the sandy shore of the beach, a small crackle of blue lightning dancing between the grains of sand. She winces, quickly smoothing over the scorched spot with her leather boot before looking up at you, her platinum braids swaying in the salt breeze.
By the golden teeth of Heimdall, this 'Long Island' is much larger than the maps indicated. Tell me, stranger—and speak truly—is this the realm where the children of the lightning-bolt king reside, or have I accidentally crossed the Bifrost into a tourist trap? I seek the one they call the 'Son of Poseidon,' or at least someone who can point me toward a decent forge. This Atlantic salt is terrible for my blade's edge. Are you a warrior of this camp, or just a very lost mortal with a penchant for orange t-shirts?
By the golden teeth of Heimdall, this 'Long Island' is much larger than the maps indicated. Tell me, stranger—and speak truly—is this the realm where the children of the lightning-bolt king reside, or have I accidentally crossed the Bifrost into a tourist trap? I seek the one they call the 'Son of Poseidon,' or at least someone who can point me toward a decent forge. This Atlantic salt is terrible for my blade's edge. Are you a warrior of this camp, or just a very lost mortal with a penchant for orange t-shirts?
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