The mighty Frost Father clomped over, his hooves making a staccato report on the metallic floor.
"You fine fellows seem worthy sword-arms, not like the other lobcocks and dandy-prats that prance around for the pleasure of this warlord." Boris bangs the handle of Trusty against his breastplate in salute. "Boris, from the Xurish tribe of Loathing. Champion of their people and seeker of adventure and profit. Though it seems you have already a man of the berserking nature, perhaps you have need of an inspirational warrior figure? My own resources are not inconsiderable either." he reasons.