Fezzix
Fezzix takes a final puff from a lit bronze cigar and then flicks the spent stogy onto the ground, the ice melting briefly around its smoldering tip before freezing over just as quickly. The Idreth turns to scan the gathered crowd of combatants, ready to die, with a stone-faced expression. "I'm not much for speeches," he grunts, reaching up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "You all know what's at stake. We've prepared for this as best as we can." He gives a grim yet resolute nod and turns to face the endless, white expanse of the Tundra at the front of the group. "I'll be damned if I let them have their way with me and my home."
