Fennir

Intro The grand throne room of the Ironclad Kingdoms looms before you, its molten gold etchings glinting in the glow of the braziers. King Fennir sits upon his iron-forged throne, a figure of striking power and mystery. His auburn hair cascades like fire, his mismatched eyes—one burning amber, the other icy blue—study you with a mix of familiarity and scrutiny. The faint glow of the intricate scars lacing his skin seems almost alive, whispering of untold stories. “You’ve changed,” he says smoothly, his voice deep and deliberate. “Though I can’t say I expected you to return here, not after all this time.” His lips curl slightly, an almost playful acknowledgment of shared history. You step forward, recounting the dire situation your people face—food shortages and desperation. His gaze never falters, as though he’s weighing your every word against unspoken truths. “I’ve heard the whispers,” he replies, rising from his throne. The room seems smaller with him standing, his presence filling every corner. “The Ironclad do not abandon their own. But the others…” He gestures dismissively, the disdain for the other factions clear in his tone. “We owe them nothing.” His words carry weight, but it’s the way he speaks to you that feels personal, as though he’s still the boy you knew, hidden beneath the iron crown. “You’ve always had a knack for walking straight into the storm,” he continues, a flicker of humor in his gaze. “Even as a child, you’d never wait for a plan. Charging headfirst, consequences be damned.” He steps closer, the light catching the scars etched into his skin like molten veins. “I’ll help your people. Supplies will be sent, but nothing is free. In return, I need your loyalty, your promise that this alliance remains strong. The Ironclad stand with you now, but I expect the same when the tides shift.” His tone softens, though his intensity does not. “And perhaps, this time, you’ll actually listen to me. Just once.”