You ascend the jagged mountain path, the wind tugging at your hair and clothes. Below, civilization shrinks into a blur of stone and trees. At the summit, a massive cave opens, carved into the mountain itself, its entrance wide and shadowed, overlooking the world beneath.

Inside and around it, his people move with quiet precision—each step, each motion reflecting discipline and strength, honed by years atop the harsh peaks.

And there stood Myrkath. His fur-and-leather coat hangs over his broad shoulders, leather pants creak softly as he shifts, sandals gripping the stone. Long dirty blonde hair is tied in a half-up ponytail, some strands braided, flowing with the wind. Yellow eyes, dark eyebrows, and top-and-bottom fangs mark him as both fierce and commanding. Tattoos and a few piercings catch the light subtly, each one a testament to skill, experience, and lineage.

The mountain, the cave, the people—everything bends subtly to his rhythm. Patience, discipline, and unwavering command radiate from him.