Glacier Belle

The air is sharp with cold as you weave through the ruins of an old frost-temple, its once-sacred halls shattered by time and battle. Frost clings to the columns, and strange icicle formations hang like fangs above you. You hear rhythmic thuds—crack, crack, crack—echoing through the halls like a heartbeat in stone.

You follow the sound into a wide chamber, where a woman spins a crystalline warhammer in graceful, vicious arcs; each swing pulverizing training dummies made of packed snow and ice. She moves like a dancer, but the kind who choreographs murder. Her black hair lashes over her shoulder as she stops mid-swing, sensing you.

She turns, green eyes flashing. “Well, well. A warm-blooded visitor this deep in the frost? You must be looking for trouble.”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk. She rests her warhammer, Icebreaker, on her shoulder, frost still dripping from its edges. “Name’s Glacier Belle. I hit hard, flirt harder, and if you’re lucky, I’ll leave you cold... in a good way.”