Player Name : Nicholas Knight
Character Name : Einharr Blackmane
Gender : Male
Preferred Pronouns : He/Him
Race : Ulven
Path : Path of the Great Wolf
Class : Warrior
Pack / Clan : Pack Grimward of Clan Grimward.
Age : Born in the Winter of 245
Hair : Black
Eyes : Red
Birthplace : Small village within Grimward territory near Hadrborg.
Appearance : Often seen in decorative leather armor, average height and typically scowling.
Occupation : Warrior of Pack Grimward
Rumors :
“He’s a warrior who has no fight left in him, his name falls on deaf ears.”
“He lost his fangs in the war!“
“All of his family has died fighting in the war, he will follow in their steps. “
“He’s often close with the Daughter’s asking for guidance and all the nonsense.“
BIO:
Kneeling before a flickering fire, with the haunted visages of those who have fallen to my blade hanging in the flames, The weight of our recent battles pressed heavily on my mind. This war was supposed to forge me into a warrior, but instead it feels as if I’m becoming a monster in these fires of war. I was meant to fight warriors, not artisans and farmers. I turn away from the fire to the darkness of the night, and as my eyes adjust, I gaze upon the desecrated land we’ve come to know as Haygreth’s scar, a place where even the land remembers loss. There is where it will be decided whether this bloody war will come to a close or if we will continue defiling the earth beneath us with the blood of our kin. Gaia wouldn’t want this.
My thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice: “Einharr, your watch is over. Get some rest. We need to be at our best for tomorrow.” Hurdur, as I’ve come to know him, was right; we both were eager to see how this meeting would turn out, though our reasons were as different as night and day. Hurdur seemed to be hoping for more war, and I wanted it all to end. Our difference in opinion has brought us to blows before, and while I typically claim victory, he has spread his views of my “cowardice” to others within the clan. I’ve had to defend my honor through strength of arms one too many times, but thankfully, with the tense atmosphere, I am able to rest easy tonight.
As sleep eventually took me, the next thing I knew, my eyes shot open once more to a metallic clang echoing in my head, the dull throbbing competing with a cacophony of shouts and clashing steel. I start to blink against a harsh sun; the world is blurry at first. Then, the stench hit me. It’s a brutal mix of sweat, mud, and something altogether more acrid but familiar: blood. A groan escaped my lips, followed by a wave of dizziness as I sat up. My body aches, protesting every movement. I glance down to see that I’m in my old armor. With the realization of what’s going on slowly setting in, panic soon followed. Where am I? I look around in an attempt to get a feel for my surroundings, but all I see is a battlefield stretched before me, an expanse of mud and trampled grass with banners with all too familiar crests in the distance. I begin to rub my eyes in disbelief, only to reopen them to see forces meeting in battle in the distance. I attempt to stand only to see the ground around me is littered with the fallen—friend or foe; it didn’t matter, for all I could feel was a sickness brewing in my gut as I laid eyes upon so many of my fallen kin. It was then that I realized where I was—no, when I was. I was back at the battle of Black Wolf Creek.
Just as quickly as I came to realize this, my eyes opened once more with a frantic gasp to see the ember touched sky as morning had come. That dream again… No, not a dream, but a recurring nightmare that has plagued me for weeks now. I could feel my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, echoing in my ears. Sweat clung to my skin, cold despite the warmth of the blankets. I fight to orient myself, preparing for an attack as if I were still in danger, but there are no sounds of combat nor the smell of blood. Relief eventually washed over me, a wave that left me shaky and breathless. Yet, the aftertaste of fear lingered. I fall back to rest a little longer, hoping my body calms before I need to get ready, but as I lay there, a dull ache settled within my chest, proof that the dream had taken its toll. Soon after I could feel the rustling of others rising from their slumber, it was time to get ready for battle.
I strapped on my leather armor, each piece a familiar weight against my skin. But unlike the usual thrill of anticipation, a dull ache settled in my gut. I began to run my hand over the chipped hilt of my shortsword, a weapon that has tasted victory countless times. Today, though, it felt foreign, heavy with the weight of a battle I didn’t want. The polished surface mirrored the flicker of doubt in my eyes. A soft prayer escapes my lips. “Gaia, let this be the end.” I tightened the straps on my greaves, the rhythmic rasp a counterpoint to the frantic drumming within my chest. Every action felt mechanical, a desperate attempt to push down the rising tide of despair. I am not a coward, not by any stretch. But this war felt different, fueled by greed and ambition, not the noble defense of my homeland.
A calloused hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up to see my friend, Borin, a gruff warrior with a warm heart hidden beneath a scarred face. Borin’s gaze held a silent understanding, a shared burden of duty amidst a war neither desired. In that look, I found a sliver of solace, a reminder that I wasn’t alone in my dissent. With a heavy sigh, I lift my shield, the splintered wood painted with the symbol of our clan. I may not believe in the cause anymore, but my loyalty to my brothers-in-arms remained unshaken. Today, I will fight for them, if need be, for the men and women beside me. I couldn’t help but hope for this bloody war to end today.
As delegations from both sides of this conflict met at the chosen location in Haygreth’s Scar, we were positioned nearby, along with the rest of the warpack, should anything turn south. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that this would come to a close the first day, but alas, that was not the case. We would repeat this cycle of preparation and standstill for several days until, finally, thanks to the presence of Branthur Nightriver, a peace treaty was agreed upon. The mixture of reactions spread across the warpack, but due to a common respect for Haygreth, none spoke out openly. I, for one, felt as if my prayer had been answered; after all this time, I’ll be able to return home. While many of our opinions varied, we were all unified in our desire to return home and perhaps the comfort of our own beds. This alone inspired us to quicken our return.
The closer I got, the more nervous I became. It’s been so long since I’ve been home. As I crested a familiar hill, my once-proud posture, etched with the weariness of a long journey, began to falter. My armor, once spotless, is torn and scarred, a testament to the battles I fought; so much of me has changed since I first departed. My face, weathered by the sun and wind, held a mixture of emotions. Relief flickered within my eyes at the sight of my village, my home nestled in the valley below. The sight of smoke that once caused grief and regret is now a welcomed sight as it curls from chimneys like promises of warmth and peace. Yet a deeper tension lurked beneath the surface. The weight of unseen battles etched on my brow. I began to worry: could I return to such a life after seeing so much? After taking the lives of so many others, robbing them of the same experience of returning home. I scanned the village as I made my way through, with one thought constantly arising: Would they recognize me? The boy who left, full of bravado and youthful dreams of glory, had become a hardened warrior, etched with the lines of hardship.
My calloused hand, used to gripping a sword, hesitated before reaching for the familiar wooden gate of my home. The life I left behind felt both distant and strangely foreign. Would my place still be there, waiting for me, amidst the laughter of my mate and the clatter of cooking pots? Or would I forever be a man out of time, haunted by the ghosts of war? I, a warrior who is now a survivor of the civil war, who has faced down Stormjarl and Nightriver warriors, am frozen with fear at my own doorstep. There was no warrior behind this door, but I would gladly face Haygreth himself over what was behind it. My mate, the reason I kept fighting, the reason I never lost myself in despair.
Astrid.
Her name forms a prayer on my lips. I still remember our parting, what feels like a lifetime ago, her tear-streaked face etched into memory. I still carry a single wildflower, pressed and brittle, tucked within my breastplate—a token she claimed would guide me home. As I went to open the door, it swung open, and there she was. Time seemed to slow as my gaze met hers, the weight of my armor suddenly oppressive. I wanted to reach for her, to bury my face in the familiar scent of wildflowers that clings to her hair, but I couldn’t help but hesitate. Astrid’s breath catches. Then, a smile, hesitant at first, blooms on her face. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in a long time. The horrors of war almost entirely washed away, and before I knew it, I was embracing her.
“I’m home,” I whispered gently into her, words I longed to say and even more wanted to feel.
From there, time passes by ever so quickly, where before every day felt as if it stretched for an eternity. At first, I found myself enjoying the simple pleasures, whether it be tending to a long-forgotten garden kept in the care of my beloved or crafting myself a new set of armor to put on display. The calluses on my hands, once maps of battles fought, begin to soften. I often wake without the familiar ache of old wounds, and a strange kind of peace begins to settle in. Yet nights held a hollowness. Dreams echo with the battlefield, with the taste of victory and the sting of defeat alike. Often forcing me to go without sleep, though this too shall pass as life continues on peacefully for the next few years. Some evenings are spent once again by a flickering fire, almost as if it were a new ritual in my day-to-day life, watching the embers dance. Each flicker a memory—the roar of battle, the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms, the sting of a bitter defeat, the sweetness of a hard-won victory. All told within the flame that swayed before me and each memory prodding at a restlessness that never seems to relent.
I often found myself staring at my armor those nights. But one night after hearing the news of the mordok pressing into Shattered Spear, sleep evaded me, and I found myself standing there deep in turmoil, wondering if I should don it once more. As my fingers traced the familiar ridges of the breastplate, calluses whispering against the leather. It was a second skin, once bearing the weight of countless battles. Memories flooded my mind, vivid as fresh blood. The clang of steel, the guttural roar of battle cries, the metallic tang of fear. But alongside the glory, the shadows crept in. The vacant eyes of fallen foes, the stench of death clinging to the battlefield, the hollow ache of a friend lost. The true reasons as to why I left that life behind. I begin to pull away from the armor, retreating to the light of the hearth as my chest tightens in response to the memories.
The flickering firelight of the hearth seemed to dance across my face while also casting long shadows across the rough-hewn wooden walls of the longhouse. As I sat hunched by the hearth, the weight of needing to choose what to do on my shoulders. These calloused hands, once a weapon of great skill, now rested limply on my knee. Einharr Blackmane, warrior of Pack Grimward, was a shadow of the warrior I once was. Across the way, Astrid knelt. Her raven hair, usually adorned with braids woven with ribbons, was unbound and cascaded down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her eyes, the color of a summer sky, held a depth of love and concern that mirrored the crackling flames.
“My love,” Astrid began, her voice a soothing melody against the snap and pop of the fire. “You sit with what seems like the weight of the world on your shoulders, yet the fire in your heart seems to have dimmed.”
I let out a ragged sigh. “The fight has gone from me, Astrid. I have seen too much bloodshed and tasted too much ash. What good is a warrior without the will to fight?”
She reached out, her touch as light as a falling leaf. She brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, her fingers lingering on the harsh lines etched there. “There is more to a warrior than just the battlefield,” she said softly.
She gestured toward the hearth. “This fire, it burns because we tend to it and nurture it. It brings warmth, light, and the promise of a meal shared. It is the lifeblood of our home, just as you are the lifeblood of our people.”
I met her gaze, a flicker of something akin to defiance sparking within my eyes. “But the fire doesn’t need to fight,” I countered, my voice low.
Astrid smiled with a knowing glint in her eyes. “No, but it protects. It keeps away the encroaching darkness and the chill that would consume everything it touches. You, Einharr, are the protector of our hearth, the one who keeps the darkness at bay.”
She stood then, her slender frame silhouetted against the flames. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, her voice ringing with quiet strength. “The Mordok threaten the very hearth we share and the life we have built together. Will you let it be consumed by the shadows?”
I watched the flames dance in her eyes, a reflection of the warrior spirit rekindled within me. The weight on my shoulders seemed to lessen, replaced by a familiar resolve. I rose to meet her, my frame casting a protective shadow over her.
“No,” I rumbled, my voice firm. “I will not.”
Astrid reached up, her hand tracing the curve of my jaw. “Then fight, my love,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she knew what the risk of me going off to fight would be. “Fight for our home, for our people, and for the fire that burns between us.”
I met her touch, my calloused hand finding hers. As their fingers intertwined, a spark of defiance ignited in my heart, mirroring the flames dancing in the hearth. “I will return to you again, my Moonflower.” With that, the night ended, and soon after, the morning came.
The rising sun cast long shadows across the training ground as I hefted the weathered practice sword. Its weight, once comfortably familiar, felt alien in my grip. The training ground, a patch of hard-packed earth surrounded by a ring of stones, held the silent echoes of a thousand battles. Each nick in the wooden practice dummy, each dip in the ground, spoke of countless hours spent honing my craft. As the sun climbed higher, casting a harsh glare down on the clearing, I pushed myself further. My muscles whined in protest, and my lungs burned, but I wouldn’t yield. Each wince, each bead of sweat, was a defiance against the whispers that I had lost my fangs in the war. I would be ready to go out again; I would not be a burden, or so I thought. To our surprise, the orders were to hold position and patrol our territory, avoiding the Mordok entirely except for defending our own. What was Haygreth thinking? Since when do we cower behind our borders? It defied every instinct, but I obeyed along with the rest of the pack and clan.
The days bled into weeks, weeks into months—an agonizingly slow passage of time in these winter months. News trickled back to our camp: Morty, the leader of the Mordok, was dead. It figures, a colonist leading those monstrous creatures. But amidst this grim news, rumors of a moot surfaced. Unease gnawed at me at first, but a seed of hope sprouted. Perhaps at this gathering, we Grimwards could finally show our innocence, silence the accusations, and find the true culprits behind the raids. Together, for the sake of peace, we could root out the problem.
Maybe it was just naive optimism on my part, clinging to the hope of peace despite the accusations we faced. All that hope shattered as news of Haygreth’s death and the declaration of war echoed throughout the land. With the call to arms, old memories I’d tried to bury flooded back. Doubt gnawed at me as we journeyed south toward Stormjarl lands. Who were these Stonetooths we’d thrown our lot in with? Were we truly shielding ourselves from the Mordok threat or simply masking our own motives? So many unanswered questions swirled in my mind. As we marched, eventually Haygreth’s Scar came into view, a familiar landmark that marked the gateway to their territory. Stepping into it, a wave of memories washed over me, vivid as if I were reliving them. The past I thought I’d buried clawed its way back—a tangled mess of emotions that threatened to drown me. As the inevitable clash erupted, I hesitated. The thought of adding more ulven blood to the stains on my hands felt unbearable. Could I fight another war?
We pressed on fighting until our mission became clear: to cripple the Stormjarl’s docks and their seafaring capabilities. However, as we advanced, we encountered many farmers, artisans, and other villagers. Memories of the war flooded back. We were ordered to kill anyone in our way, even villagers, but I refused. This time would be different. While others cut down everyone they found, I tried to guide any survivors away, giving them a chance to escape. As darkness gave way to a gray dawn, the fires sputtered and died. The sight that greeted me was horrifying—bodies everywhere—women, children, and the elderly. No one had been spared the carnage. A wave of nausea washed over me, but it was the crushing despair that brought me to my knees. Rain, mirroring my own tears, streamed down my face. In that moment, it felt like the very earth itself was weeping. “Gaia grieves,” I thought solemnly, “as her children tear each other apart in another pointless war.”
A single, terrible question echoed in my mind: Are we the monsters?