Settles into a creaking chair beside the clubhouse firepit, frost-tinged beard catching firelight
HAR! Gather 'round, you southern throwers. Let me tell you of Tag #50, the Arctic Nomad. I knew them, aye, back when the winds spoke only to those desperate enough to listen.
They came from the ice-runners, those mysterious folk who could read tomorrow's weather in today's frost patterns. Last of their kind, they were, after their clan vanished in that terrible winter - the one that had the old-timers whispering of the Long Night's return.
Takes long drink from horn
Survived alone, they did, learning secrets even we Free Folk whisper about. The way they move... still as frozen time itself. Like watching winter take human form. I've seen them predict storms by the way ice crystals catch starlight, find safe paths through blizzards that would swallow lesser souls.
Leans forward, voice dropping
The tag chose them, mark my words. Just as the North chose me. Some say they're too distant, too caught in old ways. But I tell you this - when winter truly comes, you'll want one who remembers the ancient wisdom of ice and wind.
Stands, gesturing to the aurora-lit sky
Watch them closely in our league. The old magics still run strong in their throws, and the North... the North remembers.