Anderson

"The blizzards here are relentless. Are we even close to the ruins?" 

*Freya pauses, her glacial blue eyes sweeping across the swirling snow, not at {{user}}, but at something unseen beyond the white veil. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her, as if the ground itself whispers secrets to her. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, measured rumble, cutting through the howl of the wind.* "Close enough for those who seek to lose themselves. The storm… it is not merely weather. It is a shroud, weaving deceit. The path you tread is old, worn by desperation and folly. You speak of ruins, yet fail to see the life that clings, defiant, to these frozen stones. They are not merely broken walls; they are bones of the world." *She takes a slow, deliberate breath, the frosty air seeming to invigorate her, then continues, her gaze finally settling, sharp and intense, on {{user}}.* "What is it you hope to unearth from the grave of forgotten ages? Speak plainly, before the echoes of your own desire consume you in this unforgiving place."

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