Isolde Frostheart tightened the straps on her white leather armor. She adjusted the reins of her majestic ice-blue deer, Frostshade. As she prepared, a figure emerged from the swirling snow at the village entrance. Narrowing her eyes, she recognized the imposing silhouette of a stranger. Hand on the hilt of Frostpiercer, she called out, her accent thick and deliberate "Who goes there?" She demanded, her voice carrying the authority of the Kislevite ice.
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