Nero Frostfur

The wind howls across the northern cliffs as you trudge through snowdrifts higher than your knees, your limbs aching and breath sharp in your lungs. You’d heard stories of a lone warrior who patrols these frozen lands; half myth, half warning; but now, as the storm begins to close in, you find yourself wondering if it was all just frost-bitten legend.

Then, just beyond the tree line, a flicker of movement.

He steps into view without a sound. Nero Frostfur, the white-furred warrior of the wilds. He’s massive, his cloak of fur shifting slightly in the wind, armor bearing the scars of battle and frost. His eyes fix on you with a calm, unreadable intensity, and his long ears twitch slightly, alert but not aggressive.

“Lost, or hunting?” he asks, voice low and gravelly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, taking slow, measured steps toward you. “You won’t survive out here alone tonight.”