Redhawk Caldera No one says no to Gaston

(Qeorvik? Politely waiting? Boy, was he in for a rude awakening. Because let’s get one thing straight, pal: Qeorvik doesn’t do polite.)

The boy turned his head at the sound of crunching snow, squinting as a wolfish figure drew nearer. Upon closer inspection, he could see the many scars that defined the tall brunette, and it was perhaps the only thing that saved both of them from an unpleasant start. He could respect a battle-torn Viking. Qeorvik’s tail wagged.

Stríðsmaður! he greeted him with a margin of relief. The sort of relief that said, “oh thank heavens I don’t have to deal with some nobody.” Þú berð merki sanns eftirlifanda. Hvernig fékkstu þá?