The Mana Spring at Greyfell was a place of serene, natural beauty. A stark contrast to the brutal purpose it was about to serve. A wide, circular basin. The ground was covered in a carpet of soft, glowing, pale blue moss. In the center, a pool of water shimmered with a soft, internal luminescence. The air hummed with a quiet, palpable energy. A place of life. Of magic. Of tranquility.
And standing on the far side of the pool, turning the sacred ground into a profane dueling arena, was Korgan.
He was a mountain. A walking, breathing mountain of scarred, battle-hardened muscle and grim, pragmatic intent. He stood at least seven feet tall. His bare, tattooed arms were as thick as tree trunks. He wore a simple, functional suit of heavy, blackened plate armor. Dented and scarred, but never broken. Resting on his shoulder was his legendary weapon. A two-handed greatsword so massive it looked more like a sharpened slab of iron than a blade. The Meteor-Forged Greatsword.
