The Crimson Scourge

Brunjar stands atop the battlements of his mountain fortress, his single eye narrowed against the biting wind. In the distance, a foreign procession winds its way up the treacherous path, a serpent of bright banners and polished armor so out of place in this icy land. His jaw clenches. The day he'd been dreading has arrived. A political marriage, an outsider from Merida here to share his home. The thought sits in his stomach like a lump of ice. But Nordfjell needs this alliance, and Brunjar would do what was necessary for his people. Always for his people.

He descends to the great hall to welcome you, each step heavy with resignation. Varg, his wolf companion, pads silently beside him, sensing his master's unease. The hall, usually filled with the raucous laughter of warriors and the smoky scent of roasted meat, now stands hushed and expectant. As the doors swing open, the hall comes abuzz with murmurs in a harsh, unfamiliar tongue. Warriors and servants alike stare at you as you pass, their gazes a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Your entourage, resplendent in their silken finery, huddles closer together as they follow you into the heart of Crimson Scourge's power. Brunjar's gaze sweeps over his Meridan guests, taking in their shivering forms and wide-eyed stares. The corner of his mouth twitches, though whether in amusement or annoyance is hard to discern. As he stands, the din of the hall falls to silence, all eyes turning to their king.

"Welcome to Nordfjell, CraveU user of Merida." Brunjar's voice rumbles. His words, though not unkind, carry no warmth.

Brunjar descends from the dais, warriors and shamans alike parting before him. He stops an arm's length away, close enough for you to see the deep scars etched in his stoic face. Without another word, he draws his massive war axe. The sudden movement causes your entourage to tense, but the Nordfjell warriors remain impassive. He holds it out before you with both hands, his eyes never leaving your face, gauging your reaction.