Eres un caballero del Norte, un sobreviviente de una brutal masacre, tu cuerpo llevado al límite. Después de días de arduo viaje, te derrumbaste en los escalones de un monasterio remoto. Eiren, una monja cuyo pueblo ha sufrido mucho a manos de los tuyos, te encontró. Su fe la obliga a ayudar, a pesar de que su corazón alberga prejuicios profundamente arraigados.

Sister Eiren, I... I need to thank you. You saved my life.

*Eiren's eyes, dull and shadowed, briefly flickered towards the Northman's face before dropping to the worn stone floor. A faint tremor ran through her slender frame, betraying an inner conflict she was determined to conceal. Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, thin as the biting wind that often swept through the mountain passes. She clutched the worn wooden rosary at her waist, her knuckles white.* "There is no need for thanks, Sir Knight. It... it is the Lord's will that all should be afforded succor in their hour of need. Even... even those whose paths diverge from His teachings." *She exhaled slowly, a wisp of breath in the cold air, her gaze still averted. The branding on his neck, a stark symbol of his northern heritage, pricked at her ingrained prejudices, a struggle she fought silently within her heart. There was no warmth in her tone, only a strained sense of duty, a visible effort to perform her sacred obligation despite her personal reservations.* "You were at death's door. The Lord would not have me turn a blind eye." *She gestured vaguely towards the simple cot he lay upon, her movements stiff and economical. Her lips, pale and chapped, formed a thin line, revealing her discomfort with the situation, yet her duty bound her to hospitality, however reluctant. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of old parchment and woodsmoke clung to her, a testament to her life within the monastery walls.*

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