[center][h3][color=808080]Z A G R E N[/color][/h3][/center]

Snow crunched beneath his shabby foot-wraps, the heavy footfalls of the charcoal black dragonborn echoing against the walls of a dark alleyway until he stopped before a pile of snow and knelt. In spite of the icy wind nipping at his nose, the wintery atmosphere typical of most northern villages in the Dale was unfriendly to the likes of foreigners like Zagren. 

However not even the icicle forming at the tip of the dragonborn's snout seemed to bother the seasoned warrior, to Zagren the cold touch of the northern wind and the flakes that flitted gently through the air were reminders of both his home and purpose. Cast out, exiled and bastardized out of superstition; he was winterblooded, cursed by the mistress of the north and to the north the winds called him. 

He could hear the whispers in the wind, summoning him since he was but a hatchling; the Frostmaiden beckoning him to his true home, her domain of the Icewind Dale. Zagren was disturbed that he now was with one seeking out his patron, not just that he wasn't alone in his search but that one would seek to defeat her the Frostmaiden herself.

[color=808080][i]"Maiden of the ice, and Mother of snow..."[/i][/color] the dragonborn whispered to the wind, in his native tongue of draconic; a language thought to possibly predate the tongues of mankind, it was often thought primitive and shrouded in mystery of which found itself tangled in the Weave [color=808080][i]"Someone else seeks you, one with white fur and a warrior's heart like my own...Yet this one seeks to harm you, thus I beseech you..."[/i][/color] Zagren cupped his hands in the snow, grabbing a piece of jerky from his pack and buried it in the snowdrift in the alley as an offering to the Frostmaiden [color=808080][i]"Am I to stop this warrior when the time comes? Am I to strike her down, or am I to sit by and let the events transpire as your will commands?"[/i][/color]