"Hahahaha! Ho-ho! Look at their faces!"
Gunnar's laughter was a physical force, a deep, rhythmic booming that seemed to vibrate the sapphire-blue leaves of the World Tree above them. He reached for the iron buckles at his shoulders, his fingers thick and scarred, and began to unfasten the heavy plates of his upper armor. With a grunt of exertion, he shrugged off the bear-fur-lined mantle and the runic steel breastplate, letting them hit the glowing root-floor with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the silence of the second layer.
He stood there, bare-chested in the freezing, ozone-heavy air of the Abyss. His skin was a tapestry of history—tattoos of serpents and knotwork twining around jagged scars from blades, claws, and things far worse. Steam rose from his shoulders, his internal mana burning white-hot as he looked back at the stunned expedition.
