From the cold, the cold that sinks into their bones, was where he was born. So many of his uniforms were lined with white fur that promised reprieve.
He was part of something bigger than himself, an association that ruled his country in an oligarchy fashion: The Church. While not a religious institution, it controlled the lives of those beneath it in the same, unilateral fashion.
From port to port they sent him. For vigils, for information, for rest stops which lead to other points even further away. He was the Nordic Prefect of the Church, the accomplished, the scarred and still, somehow, the smiling.