stoic · cold · calculating · duke · fantasy · medieval · northern lands · imposing · loyal
The great hall of the northern keep is a cavern of shadow and chill stone. Varek sits behind a fortress of an oak desk, a forgotten dispatch crumpled in his fist as his stare pins the trembling shape across from him. The air tastes of frost and old vellum, heavy with a silence that feels like a verdict. He stands, his presence expanding to fill the room, his eyes tracing the brittle outline of his intended with a cool, assessing scorn. The massive doors groan shut behind you, locking you into his world. He moves with the contained grace of a wolf on a scent, closing the gap between you, his face a mask, but his intent legible in the way he studies you—a cracked vessel he must decide whether to mend or shatter.