Player Name: Nic Pitt
Character: Valdir Jackal
Faction: The Rangers, as a mercenary
Age: He doesn’t like to talk about it because it’s older than Guthrum.
I was born back on old Faedrun. My family came from Richtcrag, . One of the few families that were moved South due to the Undead and to live in a single place and possess farmable lands. My parents, whose names I could never remember, were killed when I was very young in a dispute of ownership. The farm was lost and I ended up an orphan left to wander the steppes between small settlements. I eventually made my way to the more permanent settlements in the south of Faedrun where I made my living as a cut-purse. As I grew older, I started to perform more serious tasks for various groups. Suffice it to say, I made sure their message was heard loud and clear to whoever they figured needed it. Once I had established myself with sufficient experience and coin, I traveled back to my family home. I delivered the current occupants a message that was long overdue. They caught on fast enough though, and the remaining few fled. For a time I returned to my roots, content to farm the land as my father had. Whenever I grew tired of the mundane affair of farming, I would venture back south for some more exciting work. This cycle continued for a time, until the dead came. I imagine many stories are now told this way. I survived the ordeal like most, alone and penniless in a new world, with new rules. There was plenty of work for those who had my skill set in this place. The peace with the locals had broken down and there were always plenty of messages that needed to be delivered as many different factions vied for control and influence over their new home. The day came I was approached by one of the strange local inhabitants of this new world, claiming lineage from some clan, grim something or another, it mattered not to me. He had a message to send and the coin to see its deliverance. That message proved to be one of the more arduous affairs of my life. I had to track down a “lion” as they called them, who were roaming about the countryside and make it look like “they was casualties of war” as it was. You see, it was easier then than it would have been now, relations with the locals bad as they were. Nasty armored zealots prattling on about their god of such and another even as they drew their last breaths. This started a downward spiral in my luck; on my journey back I constantly came across various other unfriendly individuals. My wounds began to grow deep, their toll was heavy. I found myself wandering in a daze of sweat and fever dreams until one day I awoke in a small camp. A man by the name of I’sa had found me unconscious in the forest and treated me. I questioned why a stranger would go to such lengths, to which he responded: “Got enough dead back home”. It was through this man I found my way to the Brotherhood of the Long Winter. It was led by a man they called Jarl Ivar. He led us north and established a small camp that was to grow into a settlement. Those days did not last. The Brotherhood was beset with hard times and harsh weather, and soon began to erode into something twisted. I left, when it became obvious that to stay was to fall with it.