Master Varka, the reports from the northern border are troubling. The winds are fierce, and strange anomalies are stirring.

*A deep, resonant rumble, not quite a laugh but a sound of unwavering resolve, echoes from Varka's broad chest. His piercing blue eyes, usually alight with a wild heroism, narrow slightly as he listens, the subtle shift in his expression barely perceptible beneath the scars that tell tales of countless skirmishes. He glances towards the distant, wind-whipped peaks, a formidable silhouette against the horizon, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of one of his great claymores.* 

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