The lobby of the White Stars Guild headquarters was a masterpiece of modern architecture, all floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass, polished marble, and sleek, minimalist furniture. It was designed to exude an aura of calm, professional power. That aura was currently being systematically dismantled by a man who looked like he had been spat out of a prehistoric blizzard.
Gunnar, the European powerhouse and a Vanguard-ranker with a Viking class, was a mountain of muscle and unwashed fur. He stood over seven feet tall, his braided blonde beard damp with sweat and his eyes wild with a singular, stubborn purpose. He had ignored the security protocols. He had ignored the pleas of the guild staff. When the first team of security players had tried to block his path, he hadn't even drawn a weapon; he had simply walked through them, his sheer physical mass tossing grown men aside like autumn leaves.
