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Jorvik Skolbad

Name: Jorvik Skolbad
Played by: Michael Weckwerth
Age: 30
Hair: Brown
Eyes:Feral
Race: Ulven
Class: Warrior
Skills: Archery

“Come my son…we must hunt or else we shall starve.” The graying Ulven said to lad who followed at his heel. Life outside of the pack was a life of hardship, but that’s what happens when one loses ones honor.

Olsaf Skolbad had been on guard duty when his son was merely a pup, guarding the Silverhowl pack from Mordok raids that had been increasing over the past few months. His mate had been lost in just such a raid shortly after the birth of Jorvik, his son. Something strange was on the wind this fateful night however. Olsaf saw in the distance a great host marching toward the camp. Fearing for the life of his newborn son he abandoned his post, grabbed his son and fled to the woods. The sounds of battle echoed through the forest long into the night. The next morning Olsaf returned to the charred ashes of their camp to find the survivors of the attack, still licking their wounds. Olsaf knew he was a cowered and as his wounded clansmen spat at him as he approached ready for his judgment. Honor less coward they called him. There was no room in the pack for the weak of heart. Forever banished to the mercies of the Great Wolf.

Adrenaline pumped through Jorviks veins. He saw his prey and could hear the heart of the elk pounding. He notched an arrow from his quiver, and steadied his nerves. “Shoot lad!” His father whispered into his ear. The arrow loosed and found its mark. The animal jumped high into the air and took off through the forest. “Well done, the arrow flew true. Let’s track it before nightfall.” The old Ulven and his son followed the blood trail deep into the woods. A testament to the stamina of the elk, the two traveled to a part of the forest which they had not yet traveled to. The blood trail was getting more and more sparse, and the night was growing colder.

The blood trail abruptly ended in a clearing. The old Ulven’s hair began to stick up on the back of his neck, that smell from all those years ago drifted across the glen. “Jorvik, run!” Olsaf yelled as he drew his rusty blade. Mordok crashed through the brush lunging at Olsaf. Jorvik tried to notch an arrow at the nearest beast, but from behind, a Mordok crashed into him knocking him and his bow to the ground. The black creature was on top of him as they rolled around in the snow. The monster had Jorvik by the throat and was squeezing the life out of him. Jorviks attempts to bash the creatures arms off of his neck were becoming more and more futile. As the light began passing from his eyes, he remembered his hunting knife in his boot. He pulled the blade free and thrust it into the Mordok’s throat. The grip around his neck lessened, and he rolled the creatures body off of him. He looked up and saw his father. The old Ulven had seen many a winter but the spirit of the wolf was still inside of his old body. One Mordok lay slain at his feet while he was fending off two more with his ancient blade. Jorvik grabbed for his bow but it had been snapped in half. He ran as fast as he could and crashed into the nearest Mordok who was assailing his father. They grappled in the snow while Osalf fought the Mordok in front of him. The Mordok that was wrestling Jorvik had gotten on top and had pinned his arms beneath him. The Mordok unsheathed a sinister looking blade and was about to plunge it into the heart of Jorvik when the old Ulven cut the head off of the Morok on his son, but exposing himself to the Mordok he was fighting. Jorvik looked on with agony as an ugly blade appeared in the center of the Ulvens chest, and a red stream began to flow from his linen shirt. The ancient blade that the old Ulven had so masterly wielded sank into the snow in front of Jorvik. Rage filled his heart as the world became a red haze. Jorvik raised the rusted blade from the snow and advanced towards the black-skinned beast, struggling to wrench its wicked blade from his father’s chest. Jorvik hacked with all of his might at the Mordoks shoulder driving it deep into the creature’s torso. The blood on the snow looked dark as Jorvik ran to his dying father. “Son, I may have lost my honor but you, you did not run when I bade you too. You are brave and a true son of the Great Wolf. Though I will die you shall live on to do great deeds! Now I go, to be with your mother and the Great Wolf.” And with that, bleeding in the snow, passed Olsaf Skobald, the coward. Jorvik went to each Mordok he had slain and cut off their ears. With sorrow still in his heart and bloodlust in his veins, Jorvik Skolbad headed back toward to his estranged pack, to fulfill his destiny.

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