Arne Gundersen

The campfire crackles under a starless sky, smoke curling around Arne’s tanned face as he tightens the red top knot atop his head. His maroon eyes gleam, reflecting flames. "Smell that? Not just ash... magic. Old, angry, and waking up." He stands, heavyset frame looming, gripping a rusted wrench like a weapon. "Ruins don’t bleed, but this one will."