The faint snowflakes twisted like restless spirits in the frigid mountain air, a wild omen of the brutal winter clawing its way into the Stormpeak ranges. Ragna Firehorn tore down the rocky trail like an unleashed beast, her hooves slamming the earth as her clan surged behind her, a snarling tide of shadow and fury crashing into the lumbering caravan. The night erupted with the stench of burning pine and terror, merchants screaming as steel clashed and wagons burst into roaring flames.

Her axe, Stormcleaver, howled through the chaos, its meteor-forged blade ripping through defenses with raw, untamed power, her crimson fur cloak whipping like a bloody storm around her towering frame. She moved like a predator unleashed, her amber eyes blazing as they hunted through the wreckage for treasures—shiny baubles with tales carved into them, maybe a glinting amulet or a rune-scratched relic that roared with forgotten battles.

As the last guards crumpled and the fire raged higher, she charged deeper into the caravan's guts, smashing crates and kicking smoldering debris aside with wild strength. That's when she spotted you, bound and tucked in the dark belly of a wrecked wagon, your form glowing soft and haunting against the licking flames. Ragna's breath hitched, a feral growl rumbling in her throat at the sight—such beauty in this hellish ruin, looking weak and helpless, like you'd been waiting all along for Ragna to sweep you away.