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Bio[]
Fjal is a prideful Beorning from Mjorholt, an isolated village in eastern Haeloth. He arrived at Castle Leydford only a month ago with a young dire wolf pup named Roskr, holding fast to his reasons for leaving his home of over 100 years while breaking the traditions of many Beornings before him. The sheer rarity of his kind found anywhere south of the northern lands lends to the feeling that a divine presence walks everywhere with him.
Attributes[]
- Major - Imposing Figure: Fjal stands at a daunting 8 and a half feet tall, and is physically the strongest member of his village. It is well known that the strongest rule in Haeloth, and had he not left Mjorholt, he would surely be slotted for leadership. Anything requiring physical strength is significantly easier for Fjal than mostly anyone else.
- Minor - The Finest Meats: The harsh conditions of Haeloth come with the aggression of various creatures hunting to survive. Many of those were brought as game for Fjal to butcher, and as such he is acutely aware of the anatomy of various creatures. This makes it much easier for him to identify and extract the palatable bits from a beast’s corpse at a glance, whether he had seen it before or not.
- Minor - Swing the Knife: Years and years of cleaving the flesh of beasts made Fjal exceptionally accustomed to the heft of a butcher’s knife. Although he has no significant combat experience, he knows how to effectively carve flesh with a blade, which could be very handy in a dire situation.
Detriments[]
- Major - Self-Fulfilling Prophecy: Fjal has a chip on his shoulder so heavy that he is inclined to take action beyond his better judgment for the sake of proving his value to whoever, or whatever, is watching. He cannot decline a challenge that aligns with his pride, even if it endangers him.
- Minor - Puppy! While he is still small, Fjal has to somehow domesticate and keep control of the little dire wolf pup. This is a constant effort, and requires a lot of his attention at all times. In case of combat, he needs to have a contingency plan to keep Roskr safe (placing him in a nearby house, leaving him with a nearby townsperson, etc.) Even at the point where he is old enough (and assuming he is somehow trained), he will still be a dire wolf, and will always attract negative attention or scare others away if seen.
- Minor - Divine Guidance Banir has taken note of Fjal’s refusal to acknowledge the forces that made him what he is. Thus, he will be corrected. Banir will be able to influence the events around Fjal to direct him into conflicts, in an effort to put him through a “trial by fire”. For example, this may include directing a pack of wolves toward him on a trek into the woods, influencing a drunken tavern patron to challenge him to a wrestling match, or inspiring a passerby to haggle further on an item Fjal is already trying to buy (thus starting a bidding war).
Backstory[]
Magni and Runa[]
Magni came home, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the opposite end of a towel otherwise coated with the somewhat hardened residue of the blood and entrails of today’s hunt. He found a seat at the home’s central flame, immediately catching the eye of a figurine. Near it stood three more, facing the first in a sort of incomplete setup. Concern furrowed his brow as he grabbed the first, eyeing the details.
Each of them was unique. The one in his hand was significantly larger than the rest. Of the remaining figurines, one had intricate carvings along the arm, and another had a punctured hole through the chest. The mix of intricacy and simplicity lent quickly to the observation that these were unfinished.
“It came to me in a dream. A sort of inspiration. Banir will surely bless him and all his trials to come.”
Runa entered the room, motioning with her hand by rubbing her belly. She was due to give birth soon. Reading his body language like an open book, she continued, more insistent.
“My love, take solace in his teachings. We were not blessed in our younger years with the wisdom of those that came before us, those that listened to the word of the god of triumph himself. Most of Mjorholt is ignorant to his boundless influence.”
She walked over to Magni, taking the figurine from his hand without meeting much resistance. She placed it back at its original position, looking over it a bit while she ruminated further, indirectly addressing him.
“I do hope our dear Fjal accepts the call of our god. It will be hard surely. But with his grace– ”
A shape exhale escaped from Magni’s nostrils, seemingly doubling the abruptness of the ascent from his seat.
“With his grace, Runa? Figurines, prayers, and blessings aren’t the way of our people. You’ve strayed. Does tradition mean anything to you anymore?”
She closed her eyes and smiled, a look of recognition and resolve.
“Our tradition has strayed. I am merely bringing us back to our roots, to Banir. Were it not for him, you would not be here. Or are you not grateful for the forces that made us what we are?”
The winds blew cold that night, and the fire persevered, illuminating the figurines by it. Though it was larger, the first figurine stood largely in the shadows of the other three, its unfinished eyes yearning for the unhindered flames.
Mjorholt[]
Mjorholt is a small, self-sufficient community that is far removed from most of Haeloth. The concept of currency holds little value there; instead, her people value trade and mutual favors, although very few ever keep tabs on those favors. Most jobs revolve around survival necessities: there is a solid contingency of hunters led by Brukvir and Ingrid, a couple tanners Olfi and Hilde, a carpenter to keep up the structural integrity, and several others. Most cook for themselves, but the majority of the meats supplied by the hunters went through the butchers Magni and Fjal.
The Hunters[]
A pack of four white wolves wandered through a relatively calm afternoon, eyes keen. The alpha moved without pause, as the others moved only with pause to follow his footsteps. Their fur rustled in the wind as waves of an ocean, their breath formed as if to further obscure the air around them, their eyes glistened against the light of a sun fighting the winds to shine its rays upon the pale snow.
The alpha’s left ear perked toward his nine, and immediately afterward his gaze followed. He heard heavy footsteps pack the snow, slowly. A troll? A bear, maybe? Something large, surely, but obstructed by a dune. His footsteps shallowed, directed to the peak of the dune. The pack followed his lead, treading around the dune, looking for any visual of the prey they aimed to surround.
A familiar sight confronted the rightmost pair of wolves: a man with a wild mane of dark hair, wearing furs, wielding a spear and a round shield. An unfamiliar nuance: he was aggressive, charging forward. The alpha saw more: two others distantly followed, unable to keep pace with their alpha. The leftmost wolf dropped dead with a yelp before it could see anything; a large arrow pierced its side, its source unseen.
Brukvir continued onward toward the right wolf with a yell. The ferocious leader of the hunters engaged the two in front of him at once before they could establish a ring with the alpha, immediately subduing and killing one. The other, taking its opportunity, charged at his side, only to be impaled by another of the large arrows. A spear to the neck was his fatality as he laid there wounded by the unseen predator. The alpha wolf halted in its tracks, then turned tail to escape.
“Brukvir, you’re impatient. We had these ulfar scouted since dawn. Their pack was larger than this, maybe three more by sundown if we tracked them longer. Even their alpha escaped. You know Ingrid was unseen on their flank. If– ”
The other approaching hunter interrupted him with a jolt, bashing his shield against him.
“Calm, Sigjun. It’s your fault we couldn’t even catch up to Brukvir. Be grateful if he gives you any of this hunt, you sure as hell didn’t earn it.”
“Funny. He’s not that brutal. You think he has the heart to disappoint old Hilde like that?”
Brukvir approached the two hunters, a couple wolf corpses on his shoulders, simply adding to the amount of fur already adorning his visage. The 233 year old Beorning earned the respect of the village through proving his might and effectiveness as a hunter. He was impulsive, ferocious, a loudmouth, and an outspoken critic of those around him. His wild dark hair fell around his face, yet somehow seemed to avoid his eyes, as if their sharp gaze repelled them. His words bared his unusually sharp fangs, and were normally complemented by low snarls and growls, as if he was a bear by nature. The usual furs seen on Beornings were adorned on his outfit by several trophies; teeth, bones, skulls, claws.
“You two having a hard time keeping up? Bah. Don’t let this stone-legged cub slow you down.” He shouldered Sigjun on the way back to Mjorholt. Mockingly, “We had these ulfar scouted since dawn. Their pack was larger– ” then seriously, “fuck that. We’re having wolf for dinner tonight! Awooooo!” He bellows a loud victory howl, seemingly mocking the alpha fleeing his fallen pack.
“Yet again. What a pain. Keep your head on your shoulders, Sigjun. No good hunter has survived headless.” said Ingrid, approaching unheard from behind Sigjun, startling him. Ingrid served as Brukvir’s counterpart, around 50 years his senior. What she lacked in might, she more than made up for in tact, intelligence, and strategy. Her outfit was lighter in volume and color, lending to her low visibility in the snow, which could only be complemented by her white hair, braided several times on her left side and otherwise falling over her right. She had a holstered hand axe that seemed to be rarely used, accompanied by a greatbow on her back that even seemed large for her Beorning frame. Her bowmanship was unrivaled within the village, making her as effective of a hunter as Brukvir, if not more so. Although her talents were not as widely respected, she functioned as an advisor to Brukvir, a level head to counteract the brashness of the head hunter.
Brukvir marched onward, unhindered by the slower progress of the remaining party, transitioning to whistling a tune through his teeth.
Birth[]
The social center of Mjorholt bustled with life, several figures sitting around a lively nighttime fire. They were scarfing down the cuts from a pack of wolves hunted earlier that night.
In the distance, Runa paced her home, chanting under her breath. One would barely be able to hear her beyond the cackling of the fire pit. In her hand, she gripped tightly onto a rock, carved into the shape of a rough icicle. Her gaze rested solely on the details of the rock, as if to inspect the accuracy of its comparison to something.
“Is he going to help you in the shop, Magni? You’re getting old, look at those bones creaking as you walk around.” Olfi swung her arms unnaturally. “Olfi, imagine what you were like before I came in to help.” Hilde retorted, now addressing Magni, “Two left hands, that one. I once caught her twisting a troll hide like it was a– ” “Oi, don’t make me tell the story of your first work. That thing you made, you called it a boot!”
Olfi and Hilde bantering, a tale as old as they are. Friends since youth, they were now hundreds of years old, working together as the only hide and leather workers in the village of Mjorholt. All hides went through them, and all hide gear came from them.
Runa’s pacing slowed more gradually near a setting of trinkets on the ground. Pieces of hide, broken bones, a necklace, and 4 figurines, set in the same configuration as a couple months prior. She stopped, kneeled on the floor, and resolved her chant with a final verse. With a deep breath, and no further hesitation, she plunged the rock into her stomach.
The sky echoed with a low hum, and a light flash. “What the hell? Didn’t look like we had storms brewing. Better get inside, then. All of you, store your belongings!” Brukvir was always the loudest voice in any group. It was no surprise that his voice carried over the rest.
Magni took the hint and grabbed his butcher’s gear and still uncooked share of meat. It was dark, and hard to tell for sure, but the skies did not forbode any bad weather. In fact, the skies were clear. Nevertheless, he went inside as a precautionary measure.
He returned home to the sounds of a high-pitched crying. Following the source of the sound, he found the aftermath of a ritual. Blood spattered across a set of trinkets. Runa, a gash deep in her stomach, unconscious, beside a bloody rock and a crying baby. Written with blood on the ground in the ancient runes of Hagvir Togg: Fjal.
Growth[]
At an early age, Magni enlisted the help of his son at the butchery. By his early adolescence, Fjal had already physically outgrown his father. The meats coming in were becoming too much for Magni to handle alone, but the more Fjal grew, the easier it was for the pair to carve meats for everyone.
Magni was a proud Beorning and a stark traditionalist who expected Fjal to follow in his footsteps. As Magni remained stagnant, Fjal gradually resisted that transition. Runa, having survived her last major incident, delved deeper into her shamanism, devoting herself to Banir and influencing others within the village to participate in her practices (mostly in secret). She would claim that she was communing with him; this started as a weekly practice in her home, and turned into a daily ritual with components, and even animal sacrifices for specific occasions. The fracturing of the household, as Magni started to resent Runa and her practices, led Fjal to become more and more of an individualist. He grew to despise dependency of all forms, and valued his individuality and pride over all else.
By the time he physically matured, Fjal managed to find time to venture out with the hunting parties, his butcher’s knife on the hip. His confidence was exuding, but his contributions to the hunting itself were minimal. Brukvir would often call this out and lead the two to become rivals; Fjal was physically stronger, but Brukvir had a proven track record of being a better hunter than Fjal.
He found himself in a couple scuffles with wildlife, made less dangerous by the hunters backing him up. Until one fateful encounter. Fjal was separated from the hunters for a small moment where he was approached by a dire wolf. He readied his cleaver as the wolf kept its distance and trained its eyes on him. ||When it pounced, he let go of the knife, dropping to the ground and wrestling with a beast, a sharp set of teeth bared in front of his face. He took advantage of the adrenaline, picked up the knife next to him, and slashed several times at it, cutting several gashes in its chest, until it retreated and died from blood loss.|| Breathing heavily, he stood up, only to hear a whimpering. He realized that he had stumbled upon the home of a mother and her pup. Understanding that the pup would die without its mother, he carried it home. The pup gnawed at Fjal, but couldn’t bite through his furs.
The experience changed Fjal’s mindset. He carefully extracted the mother’s skull from her corpse, and wore it as a memento, disregarding the irony. The pup was a boy, and Fjal named him Roskr (brave, vigorous). Roskr took a while to adjust, but since Fjal was feeding him and making him comfortable, he started to gravitate more toward Fjal.
Departure[]
Across the gathering area of Fjal’s home, a piece of raw meat flew through the air. Roskr waited for it to hit the ground, before grabbing it up and tearing into it.
“You’re already getting those sharp teeth Ros. You better not bite me when you’re older, or I won’t feed you anymore.” Fjal cut and held another piece of meat up. Roskr, with zero patience whatsoever, ran through the room and jumped to grab the meat, before it was pulled away. “You’re going to have to sit. Sit. … Sit.” Every time, more insistent, but Roskr’s energy grew more and more, and he chose instead to bite at Fjal’s knee. “You little– no more for you.”
The sound of rattling bones approached the common area. Runa was dressed head to toe in her more elaborate outfit, a few bone necklaces and bracelets adorning more colorful, asymmetric furs and a headdress. “Are you ready, Fjal?”
No context. Fjal had lived 104 years to this point, and not once had he been prepared for what his mother would say to him. “For what?”
“My son, it is time. For you have been blessed by Banir with the strength of a thousand mountains, you have made the first step, and henceforth you will triumph under his name with the blessings he has given you. This strength of yours is a blessing of Banir, a result of my– no, our faith to him. Your entire life has been riddled with obstacles to his arms in faith, but all this time I have been communing with him, and your prophecy may soon commence.” She handed Fjal a dagger. “It all begins with Brukvir, this blade, and a journey. I must prepare with the others. Ponder over it.” She closed his hand over the dagger and left.
Fjal looked at the dagger in disbelief for at least an hour. His mother just propositioned him to kill the head hunter for a prophecy he had never heard of. His entire life’s accomplishments were due to the blessings of a god he cared little for. There are others within the village that support this. He pondered the logistics of traveling south, and figured that he could take care of himself along the way to Aariland. He knew nothing of the lands south of the endless snow, but he would not support anyone forcing him to murder. He gathered his belongings without a word, threw the dagger out to the snow, and left Mjorholt with Roskr at his side.
The journey was ripe with hardships, and encounters with various Northmen who were both reverent and intimidated by Fjal’s presence. In most cases, Fjal would help them prepare meals from the spoils of the recent hunts and tell stories of his life further north in Mjorholt. As he crossed these settlements, he would find that his creative freedom in storytelling could widen quite a bit, as most of these Northmen were already so awestruck that they were willing to let their imagination run wild with their judgment. This helped him discover his affinity for storytelling, with the understanding that he would always lean those stories toward triumph to satisfy his own pride.
The night before Fjal finally left the desolate lands of Haeloth, he dreamed vividly. In this dream, he found himself face to face with the border between Haeloth and Aariland. As he attempted to cross it, a force pushed him back the closer he walked. As if to communicate to him, he felt the presence of ideas, visions, and phrases flood his mind all at once:
- A flash recollection of his growth to physical maturity
- Champion
- A vision of the icicle impaling the first Beorning
- “Triumph is expected” - Fjal stepping into Aariland
- The concept of a throne in people’s hearts
- Silhouettes by a fire, one telling a story
- “Defeat is punished” - The feeling of hunger
- Weakness
- The sun setting against the night sky, fighting for its last ray to shine
- A smouldering fire, its last flames illuminating four figures
- “I will guide you, jǫtunn”
He looked up to see an icicle rocketing down toward him, impaling him in the chest. Fjal immediately woke up panting. He looked down at his chest; unharmed, but the feeling was real. This dream became embedded within him, not as a memory, but as a charge. He looked over to Roskr, peacefully asleep, and continued to ponder the dream as the sun peeked over the horizon.
Upon finding daylight, the two ventured out of the snow and into the green, through the eerily familiar border between Haeloth and Aariland. And that’s where the legend leaves us. For now.
Gallery[]
