Fjorad Wolfheart

Nothing inspired or excited a young Fjorad more than tales of Tormin the Cold. This legendary Dwarf overcame terrible failures at the forge, climbed the highest peaks of the Mountains of Despair, and traveled to the Winterlands in Teleria’s farthest north. With both being from Gloomdeep Hold, Fjorad identified himself even more Tormin, and wished to be great just like him. And so, from a young age, Fjorad sought excellence wherever he could. From youth to early adulthood he became as skilled a sailor as he was a warrior, and no less competent in runekeeping, rime-magic, and animal-speaking. He was a polymath, knowledgeable far beyond his years, with a work ethic that outpaced that not just of his peers but many of his tutors. He had achieved much, but Fjorad wanted more than what Gloomdeep could offer. Tormin became Tormin the Cold only after traveling to the Winterlands. And so Fjorad left home, in search of novelty and adventure and opportunity to put his skills into practice in a way he never could if he stayed. Who knew who he might meet? What he might learn and experience? Fjorad first spent weeks in Port Wretched, Gloomdeep’s fabled docklands. It astounded him he’d never come before – surely some of his studies could have come later. Pirates, traders, sorcerers, mages, and warriors of every stripe could be found there in their thousands, whether they be Ogryn, Lizardmen, Skinwalkers, Humans, or Elves. Fjorad bought rounds for everyone. Dark Elf raiders fresh from plundering northern Yakai. Sylvan apothecaries treating the sick and wounded with medicinal plants brought from their enchanted jungle realm. Gold-toothed Velyzari slavers and gladiator-trainers, and even hooded, skeletal-thin Humans who promised him immortality if only he entrusted his soul to them. All drank with Fjorad. He reveled in the tavern brawls, the gossip, the rapid exchange of wares from all over Teleria, but he never forgot about the Winterlands. He eventually bought passage aboard a Norr vessel whose crew were making their way to Port Wraith, the northern continent’s largest settlement. For several years, Fjorad lived in the Winterlands, hoping for the revelation he had expected to come to him after reaching his destination, the place where everything changed for Tormin. But the revelation never came. He grew listless and frustrated and, having heard countless tales from the raiders of the sights and sounds of the world, decided to join them. In the same manner he excelled at so many other things, Fjorad was a superlative pirate. He outwitted Aravian merchantmen and toyed with Shadowkin privateers. He lured targets ships onto rocks or broke their oars in daring maneuvers. He became known as the Direwolf of Port Wraith for his lupine cunning, and he named his ship – the fastest in Port Wraith – the Wylfror to solidify his reputation, using Norr dialect in honor of his adopted home. The vessel was bedecked with Dwarven runes of protection, luck, and speed, and wolf-totems and iconography adorned its flanks and bow. Life was good. Fjorad had a superb crew. He was seeing the world and doing exactly what he wanted. The thought that this was not the epiphany he had always sought out nagged at his mind, but this was the most satisfied he had ever been. Everything changed when, toward the end of the Gaellen War, a flotilla of Gaellen ships succeeded in surrounding the Wylfror. Fjorad and his crew put up a desperate fight, causing many more losses than they suffered, but were overwhelmed. His ship was finally destroyed when it was rammed by a Gaellen war galley and his entire crew was captured or killed. Fjorad himself was left in the harsh, freezing seas, holding on to Wylfror’s wolf-totem capstan to keep himself afloat. Fjorad was in the sea for days, skin turning blue with cold, teeth worn down with chattering. He uttered incantation after incantation to maintain basic warmth, lure fish, or deter floesharks. Later, he washed up on some unnamed Winterlands shore, unconscious, the elements finally having defeated him. Images flashed in his mind. Tormin. Frostwolves. Ships. Waves. Tormin. Gloomdeep. Wretched. Ice. Tormin. Tormin. That was who Fjorad saw when he finally opened his eyes, in a place miles from the sea, starving and in terrible pain. The Dwarf stood, looking down upon him, radiating cold power and timeless authority. Next to him sat an enormous frostwolf, its thick, blue-grey pelt shaggy and gleaming. In one hand, Tormin bore his famous rime-hammer, an enormous weapon thrumming with awesome potential. In another was a two-handed ax with blades of razor-sharp ice. He handed it to Fjorad, grip first. Fjorad knew Tormin had forged it himself. The moment Fjorad grasped the ax’s handle, Tormin and the wolf vanished. In that same instant all Fjorad’s agony and hunger disappeared. He felt more alive than ever, new strength in his body and mind. He rose to his feet, staring at his hands. They were blue, not with cold, but with magic, and thick, lupine fur extended from them to his elbows. Some act of Tormin? Or one of his own spells he cast to save his life in the freezing waters? He could not tell. Now he did not feel the cold at all. It felt to him as if he had become one with it… perhaps… made to become one with it. Fjorad then had his epiphany. Tormin had not become who he was because of the Winterlands, but because of the choices he made to overcome his challenges. He found purpose in that, and it made him something more than a Dwarf. Fjorad had believed his purpose had always been to have something happen to him, and in a sense that had now happened with the Wylfror’s destruction and Tormin’s appearance. But he had never considered what he would do after. The stories never told of what Tormin did after his transformation. One desire burned in his heart – revenge, for his destroyed vessel and slaughtered crew. The Gaellens would pay.