Chapter 4: Vardon Thornehart
Vardon Thornehart, the Iron Duke of the North, the enduring shield of the kingdom of Norvaegard, one who has continuously defended Norvaegard from the monster waves and the barbarian tribes.
Even as he sat looking at some paperwork, he was like a fortress in human form. Towering and broad-shouldered, his body bore the marks of countless battles, scarred knuckles, weather-worn skin, and a posture so rigid it felt carved from stone.
His hair, once a deep black, had faded into iron-gray, swept back neatly, not a strand out of place. A short, well-kept beard framed his square jaw, streaked with silver like frost creeping over a steel blade.
His eyes, a piercing ice-blue, held the weight of the North in them. They were cold, sharp, and unwavering. When they settled on you, it felt like standing before a frozen cliff moments before it collapsed. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his voice was like a sharp blade able to cut you at any given moment.
Clad in his deep blue military coat, trimmed with the white fur of frostfang wolves native to the northern wilds, and with the sigil of Thornehart, a shield wrapped in thorns, on his chest.
Vardon stopped his hand as he sensed a familiar presence approaching his room. Before the other party could knock on the door, Vardon spoke.
"Vahn, come in."
The old butler opened the door and did a knight’s bow, one hand firmly pressed on his chest.
"My lord, I have something to report about the young master."
"What is it? Did he get hurt again while training? Or perhaps did he decide to stop training altogether?"
Though Vardon’s tone was disinterested, his eyes remained locked on Vahn. He was listening intently.