Profile
"A myth. A legend. A piece of fiction, written to inspire hope and wonder within those who seek it. That is what the scholars want you to believe, my young disciple. To hide their failure, their inability to find any real evidence of this myth. But do not be swayed by the authoritarian words of the scholar elite. The tales of the ancient Íþalirr always have a bit of truth to them. And this one...is horrifying."
-Senior Scholar Hewelet, on the ancient myth of the White Wolf
Although his name might be forgotten to history and his deeds eroded by the sands of time, the old wolf still lives on. A travelling behemoth, exploring the lands of his world, seeking knowledge and experience. A rather mysterious fellow to most, he keeps mostly to himself, out in the wilderness of whatever land he finds himself in. A voluntary solitude, to stay out of the history books and not interfere with the development of his world. A game he has been playing for far too long. But he didn't start out like this... No legend starts with fanfare and epic battles. No, the legend of the White Wolf started out humble, far up in the freezing wastelands of Norrheim. Born in a different era, a different age and time. The story of Brýtunn starts out with ice and frost...
Just like any other child of the north, Brýtunn was born into a large family. A necessity for the hardy northerners, as few of the children they birth live past the age of twelve. At birth, Brýtunn was a human. A northerner, more specifically, descended from the ancient giants that still roams the land. Already at a young age, Brýtunn was a strong soul. A natural leader, a hardy warrior and a stubborn survivor. Perhaps a little more silent than the rest of his kin, he was always calm and collected, preferring to speak only for true needs and rarely asked for much. Much like the other children of the north, Brýtunn experienced loss and grief at an early age. Many of his younger siblings would perish to the harsh climate of the north, taken by cold or predators in the dark. But through perseverence and willpower, Brýtunn survived, finding comfort in nature where others would find pain. During his early years he befriended a winter wolf cub in the wild, a silent friend he would often find himself sneaking back to in the middle of the night to feed and pet, when his village was sleeping. He named this cub Fenrýkk, and together, they grew up. A bond was made, one stronger than most. They hunted together, ate together, slept together. By the time Brýtunn turned sixteen, they were an inseparable duo. But just like many tales of the north, tragedy struck already at this young age.
Tribe rivalry was a harsh reality in Norrheim. Their religion demanded that only men who perish in battle may visit the paradise of the afterlife, and so many tribes took to fighting each other to achieve this. Unfortunately, this also meant death was a common part of a northerner's life, and their infrastructure was ever changing due to raids and wars... Brýtunn, like many others, found himself at the mercy of this fact. His home village was burnt to the ground, their food and treasures plundered, their people slaughtered. At sixteen years of age, Brýtunn was one of the inhabitants entrusted with safeguarding the village. But as his friends and family fell around him, as he tasted his first taste of real battle, as the pain of his wounds seeped into his mind...he ran. He abandoned his post, fleeing out into the wilderness to lick his wounds and escape certain death. For the first time in his life, he had tasted real fear, and he had stared death in the eye. He found Fenrýkk at his usual spot, and together, they ventured out into the wilderness, forever leaving Brýtunn's past behind to seek new fortunes in greener pastures. Or in the case of Norrheim, a pasture with slightly less blood in it.
The wilderness of the north is a harsh mistress. Temperatures reaching as low as -60°C, winds powerful enough to peel the skin off uncovered flesh, dangerous predators capable of snapping you in half with a single bite... The lands of the north is not a place for the unprepared adventurer. And certainly not for a wounded sixteen year-old with no food... And yet, through sheer willpower and determination, Brýtunn and Fenrýkk braved the harsh frozen wasteland, through taigas and mountains, through tundras and seas of ice... Months passed without a village in sight, their resolve was weakening. But treasure comes to the worthy, and limping near the edge of death, they finally found peace... Jotrýnnheim. The capital city of the future Norrheimian Empire. A gargantuan city built by the gods themselves, its towering walls and beacon of light a relaxing sight for sore eyes. Here, the young northerner and his wolven companion were taken in. Nurtured by the people of the city, taken care of by the kindness of the northerners. But during these days, Brýtunn found himself regretting his actions... He came to think of the cowardice he showed on the day his village was raided, the dishonour he had brought upon himself in the eyes of his gods. And he decide it was enough. He decided that he shall no longer blink in the face of death, that he shall show himself to be worthy of his place in Válunnhirr after his death. And so, he joined the local military, to become the warrior he wanted to be. Here, his journey finally began...
His first years were brutal. He was a large man, even for a northerner. Eight feet and six inches tall, about half a foot taller than most others around him. But despite his size and strength, he found himself lacking in skill, and he was beaten to the ground over and over again during training. But once more, his willpower showed its might, and he kept standing back up... And with it, he started getting better. He started beating his fellow warriors during training, he started sustaining less wounds during the skirmishes with local tribes, he started rising through the ranks... The years went by, his skills kept improving, his resolve only got stronger. His natural leadership earned him the place as a squad leader, and soon a commander. Years after that, his tactical genius and strategical mind got him the rank of General, and after his skills proved useful to expanding the borders of his kingdom, he soon took the title of High Commander of the Norrheimian army. Full control of the military, might that would corrupt many impure souls. But with this might, Brýtunn kept winning. He was a true leader by heart, leading all his battles from the front lines riding atop his trusty companion Fenrýkk. War was no longer something to fear. It was something to love. Fire and ice flowed through his veins, a will of steel and a mind sharp as a sword won him battle after battle, kept the borders expanding throughout the northern continent. He was a hero to many, a villain to some, and a friend to few. And this is the life he loved. This is the life he chose, and this was the life he was going to end some day...
The years kept coming. Twenty, thirty, fourty, fifty... Brýtunn grew unsuually old for a northerner, whos life expectancy averaged somewhere in the mid twenties. With age, experience grew, and with experience, the borders kept growing. The tribe this started out as when little sixteen year-old Brýtunn found the capital city had now turned into a proper empire, and by the time Brýtunn turned seventy, his army had conquered the entire northern continent of Arkeon. He had done it, he had ushered in a new era for the north, a golden era for the Empire. The few years where this lasted were a happy few years for Brýtunn, he had finally found his peace. But, as always, nothing good lasts forever. And the fall of the Norrheimian Empire was soon to begin... The old High Emperor grew sick, his age finally getting to him. He had only a single heir to his Empire, one who was despised by many. A foolish son, who cast away the gods of the north and the traditions of his forefathers. And so, the dying High Emperor turned his attention elsewhere, to one of his closest and most entrusted friends... The High Commander. Brýtunn. To uphold tradition and ensure the High Emperor would pass on to the afterlife of the gods, they were to duel. And the outcome was not surprising. The High Emperor fell to the might of Brýtunn's greataxe, his head rolling across the floor as his soul went on to join his kin in Válunnhirr. And at that moment, by ancient law of the north, Brýtunn had earned the crown.
...but the former High Emperor's son was a jealous man. He would not have the ancient bloodline of emperors and empresses end with his father, and through manipulation and political battles, he soon found himself sitting upon the Northern Throne, High Commander Brýtunn bowing at his feet, despite the ancient laws dictating otherwise. The naive young High Emperor soon rejected the gods that had brought him such power, forbidding their worship across the Empire and executing all those who stood in his way. An action the northern gods did not take kindly... Plagues, famine, horrible storms of ice, wildlife run amok, mysterious disappearings... The Empire started to crumble under the wrath of the gods, millions dying in just a few years as the High Emperor sat on his throne, uncaring for a single lost soul. That is, until they finally came to his shores... One faithful night, when the Empire had crumbled to nothing but the capital city, the gods finally showed their final might. An endless army of Valkkýrrje stood outside the gates of Jotrýnnheim, divine warriors of the afterlife, soldiers of the gods. The gods gave the High Emperor an ultimatum, to pass down his crown to a worthy heir, or face their wrath. At this, the High Emperor declined.
The battle that followed was short and brutal. Hundreds of square miles of city, taken in less than an hour by the immortal godly warriors. Men, women and children slaughtered on the streets, their cries echoing through the black night sky, their blood filling the streets... The remaining army did all they could trying to fend off the attack, under the orders of their High Emperor. But not a single Valkkýrrje fell by mortal blades. As the battle was lost, the remaining royal guard gathered up in the throne room for one final stand to protect the High Emperor, who was cowering next to his throne in his previously unused plate armour. Among these royal guards stood Brýtunn, riding atop his armoured winter wolf companion Fenrýkk as he always was. But the moment he laid his eyes upon the High Emperor, a black rage came over him. All of this was his fault. All this death, the suffering, the needless bloodshed... The Empire he had built with his own blood, sweat and tears...crumbled to dust by an arrogant kid. As the doors of the throne room crashed behind him and the divine horde stormed inside, Brýtunn took his axe and charged right at the High Emperor, rage in his eyes. The blow was swift, and no battle took place.
As the former High Emperor fell to the ground, his head rolling up against one of Fenrýkk's paws, the divine warriors behind him stopped their charge. Everyone else was dead, Brýtunn and Fenrýkk were the only surviving members of the Empire. And once more, by right of ancient law, he had defeated the High Emperor through combat. And so, took his place... No longer the arrogant leader they were assigned to dethrone, the Valkkýrrje warriors kneeled before their new High Emperor as he sat upon his mount, gazing over the masses of godly warriors before him. He finally claimed his rightful place...but what was left to govern? The Empire he once had loved and fought for was no more, nothing but ash and dust. As the gods witnessed this, they knew the time of the Norrheimian Empire was finally at an end. But they were wise. They also saw the warrior it had created, the personification of willpower and determination that now ruled over the dead land. And so, time stopped. And from the perspective of Brýtunn, everything went black...
He awoke. The throne room was dead silent, not a soul in sight. The walls had cracks in them, the ceiling had caved in, the rushing air through the former palace had weathered and worn down the rock to a smooth surface. The world felt smaller to the giant, who now looked upon his hands. No, his paws... They were white. His entire body was white, arctic fur had taken the place of skin, the same shade of snow white as Fenrýkk once had. His eyes were glowing a pale blue, he stood at a towering nine feet tall, he felt stronger than ever before... What...had happened to him? His senses were sharp as a wolf, his mind was clear and focused. He looked upon the ground before him. A greataxe laid before him, one of massive scale, nearly taller than he was. Glowing pale blue runes along the blade told of the blessing he had been bestowed by his gods, how they had chosen him to be their divine champion. Their Executioner of Gods... How they had combined the body of himself and his loyal companion, and Fenrýkk's soul was now within the axe. The gods had given him another chance, a purpose, and a powerful blessing... The palace was crumbling with age. Five thousand years had passed since the Empire fell. The world was a new place, ready to be discovered. His past behind him, Brýtunn was now a new soul, ready to travel the world and seek out new knowledge and experience. With uncertain yet confident steps, Brýtunn stepped out of the ancient gates of the crumbling city, into the vast white tundra of the north. And with a sigh of relief and a smile...the tale of the White Wolf had just begun.
