Einar and Ch'dau have just met.

I had a ton of fun with this collab with Eol. Now am very much looking forward to seeing this two battle-hardened idiots fight it out lol

Will be updating within the next few days is the hope.

Early darkening; 26th of Bre Taola, 453 E.R.
The Bent Copper inn, Calestra, Coria

At Einar's signal, Eldan stabbed the man holding him with the knife he kept in his coat sleeve. The blade to the elbow made the man's arm unwind from Eldan's neck, allowing him to retreat a few paces, and providing a distraction for Einar's next move.

The Vidarak launched himself across the room, bringing his hook to bear as he grappled the intruder closest to him. Taken off-guard, the leatherbound man grunted in pain when Einar's hook found purchase in his arm, then swore when a headbutt followed suit. Distance was not given to the man, for Einar pulled his opponent towards himself and drove the spike atop his axehead into the man's stomach. With a gurgle, the man slumped into Einar, who ripped his hook from its grip in flesh, and faced the third intruder.

As they sized one another up, the intruder brandished a pair of daggers and gestured with the blades for Einar to draw nearer. In response, Einar unloaded his axe from his belt, lowered into a ready position, and growled.

Meanwhile, Eldan had spent the past several minutes trading blows with his assailant. He had lost his sleeve knife and the advantage it being stuck in the man's arm gave him when it was ripped out and tossed aside, but this still worked in the sylvari's favour; the man was clearly in pain, laborous breaths between strikes proving the point. Even if he was facing blood loss, the attacker still kept at it, deflecting each blow from the daggers Eldan stored in his boots. They danced across the room, narrowly missing a swing from Einar's axe, stumbling when Eldan collided with a chair. The man took the chance, raising his sword aloft, intending a clean strike across and -

He went still, blood pouring from his neck at the entrance site of the knife Eldan threw. The second one to go down toppled to the floor, and the remaining intruder watched in dawning horror as she realized her mistake. The leathered woman deflected Einar's jab, then dove between his wide stance and landed a kick to the back of his legs. Einar went to his knees hard, and as soon as he were on them, the woman wrapped her arms around his neck, dagger to his throat.

"Honour yourself and die, pig," the woman spat in his ear. Her grip holding his throat tightened, the dagger driving just a sliver inwards, and Einar smiled in return.

"Gladly," he retorted as Eldan drove his daggers into the woman's back. Free once more, Einar leaned forward and coughed past the pain in his throat. He rose to his feet, turning to shake the sylvari's hand.

"You've done me another favour it seems," the Vidarak said. "I will complete this job with you, and maybe find time to eliminate this threat to your life.”

"Debt collectors," Eldan replied. "Always a pain."

The two shook on it just in time for four more crashes to resound through the room, as five more entered through the shattered windows. Seeing the carnage of what must be their fellows - for they wore the same leathers - the five new assailants rounded on the two men with angry snarls.

Before either syl or human could react, two well-placed kicks to the abdomen sent Eldan and Einar spilling into the hallway of the inn. Three of the attackers grabbed Eldan, who clearly remained their priority, while the other two continued pushing Einar down the hallway.

He blocked dagger blows on both sides, even caught a couple with his hook, but a pommel strike to the gut sent Einar doubling over. The second one to the back of the head shone stars across his field of vision. Then the kick to the nose sent him flying backwards down the stairs, cursing and grunting as he went.

Downstairs

“Do you hear that, t’mbili m’chana,” the Kazari’s voice thrummed.

“Hear what, sir?” The girl queried, still blinking into the shadows of the ceiling above, “I don’t hear any…”

A violent crash, issuing from the tavern’s upper floor, echoed down the stairway and into the common room, then. This was followed by grunts, curses, and more clashing noises that, now, Ch’dau could not fail to identify as the sounds of battle.

“A fight,” the Kazari snarled, getting to his feet and pushing the girl behind him as the sound of bodies tumbling down the steps drew his narrowed gaze to the stairway.

The words had scarcely passed the Kazari’s lips when, in a stream of clatters and curses, a body thudded down the stairs. The unceremonious descent ended in a grunt and a puff of air as the lanky figure slammed into the floorboards at the foot of the stair. Undeterred despite the breath that had been knocked form his lungs, though, the gangly, silver-haired monkey had already begun trying to regain its feet before Ch’dau had crossed the room.  As the Kazari drew nearer, the t’mbili had managed it’s knees, a hand, and – is that a hook? – was reaching for a blade as a boot scuffed the wood of the floor in search of purchase.

“Take your time, monkey,” the cat-man snorted, having come close enough, now, to recognize the man’s armor and aspect as Vidarak, “Your gods will wait, I am sure.”

With one paw, he reached down to grab hold of the man’s collar and forcefully hauled the tall sea-reaver to his feet; meanwhile, the other paw had gone to the hilt of a falcata concealed beneath the fall of his cloak even as his slit-pupiled eyes turned up the stairway and fell upon the dark-clad figures that raced down in pursuit of the silver-haired man. The growl that escaped him, then, forestalled the shadowy figures on the stairs only long enough for the Vidarak to register that his feet were under him, again, and, at the sight of the beast who had so roughly jerked him up, raised both hook and axe …

…The slash of the axe went wide as the cat-beast seemed to have no difficulty in ducking under the air as it split, but the hook landed true and, as it pierced flesh, a roaring sound erupted from the creature. A sound of pain and rage loud enough to shake the walls of the tiny tavern and, perhaps, even spread beyond.

Drawing near, the man and beast were nearly at eye level - a first for Ch'dau. "Did your mam shag a cat, monster?" the raider taunted. "Or is that the pelt of your first lay?"

“Hm,” Ch’dau snorted through his snarl, “Funny.”

The Vidarak was jerked forward as, even with the hook in it’s shoulder, the tiger-monster lashed out with a blade and cut the legs out from under one of the assassins. Then, he was lifted up, the cat-man’s sharp teeth gnashing in his face as it tore the hook free. To the Vidarak’s surprise, the monster didn’t kill him, just then. Instead, it dropped him back to his feet, snarled something that sounded like “do not make me kill you,” and turned it’s attentions back to the stairway just before the second assassin launched himself from the steps...

Ch’dau ducked under the assassin’s leap and swiped at the man with a paw as he sailed overhead. The Kazari’s claws gouged deep scores into the leather armor covering the man’s belly and bounced him from the wall, yet the cutthroat still managed to land fairly gracefully at the bottom of the stairway and roll to his feet behind the white-haired raider.

“For you and your fish hook, monkey,” Ch’dau chuffed at the Vidarak before bound up the steps in pursuit of the third assassin.

“How generous of you, monster,” the hook-handed reaver spat, his gaze tearing away from the cat-beast as he swung around in hopes of burying his axe in the assassin at his back.

The cutthroat was quick, though, and prepared for the wild swing, easily deflecting the arc of the axe’s blade with a practiced flick of the twin daggers. He nearly evaded the hook that followed in the wake of the axe, too, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The daggers fell from his hands and clattered to the floor and he gurgled as the deadly prosthetic tore into his neck and laid waste to his throat.

As the Vidarak lowered his would be killer to the floor and pulled his blood-soaked hook from the man’s neck, he heard a series of thumps, a choked scream, and the sound of breaking glass from the floor above. Turning toward the sound, he caught sight of the cat-beast as it reappeared at the top of the stairs. “Where’s the other one?” he queried.

Ch’dau sheathed his blade, shrugged, and thumbing at the blood that seeped from the fresh wound in his shoulder answered simply; “Outside.”

Well if it's Ryan Reynolds who told me that, then I believe it lol

Then I shall continue abusing my Viking and getting poked!

When do I get my membership card?

Well here's hoping I haven't been assimilated enough to scare off the new guy lol

Thanks so much for being open like this, Olan. It's not the easiest thing to share personal struggles, but I applaud you for sharing. Please don't berate yourself for taking the time and steps you need; mental health is very much a journey and one that is unique to everyone.

I'm really happy to be a part of your wonderful site and am very looking forward to playing in your game, but I hope you take care of yourself first above it all.

I myself was diagnosed with depression and anxiety a little over three years ago. My journey was hard-fought but I came out the other side better, as I truly hope will be the outcome for you.

I look forward to being stabbed.

Wouldn't tradition be that the rogue falls in love? Einar could use some TLC after the rough stuff I've been putting him through.

Also, Brom, Eol, breebles: thank you for the encouragement. I'm excited to work on this horror show with such kind people

breebles to the rescue for my self-esteem lol

Thank you! It took waaay longer than I wanted to though. And the best words to learn in any language are the swear words, as far as I'm concerned.

It took a week to write that piece of crap update, but there it is. I'll be jumping back into the action shortly and am really looking forward to the collab with Eol.

The Lighting; 26th of Bre Taola, 453 E.R.
The road to Calestra, Coria

The underbrush beside the Corian trade route was an overgrown, weedy things. Brambles and thistles grew into coils of bushes, nourished by rainwater runoff, roots deep in the untrod path. Some flowers dared to bloom, yellow dots bobbing amongst the cattails and woolgrass. What this patch didn't grow however, was Vidarak. And yet, nestled beneath prickled bushes, lay one.

Einar was not exactly pleased to be in the dirt, as it were. Since he awoke two days ago in a healer's tent, side wound stitched and dressed, he had been in peculiar situations like this. The merchant had insisted Einar see to his wounds, after he bled through the third of his embroidered fabrics, and so they had veered from the road to Calestra at the first smoke puffs they saw.

They were lucky to find a healer at all in such a small backwater town. But she had done well, given Einar a rum shot before dousing his wound and patching it. The stitches were neat, the dressing clean, and the ache was an improvement to the burning he had felt every time he breathed before the healer's handiwork made him whole again. Einar had slept soundly in the cot, eased by booze and newfound relief, that he did not hear Donnic drive his wagon away in the night.

Coin was left for his treatment and Einar could find no fault in fleeing a man who had coerced him to obey. Even so, the merchant's departure had made the trek to Calestra that much more of a hassle, as evidenced by Einar's status in the ditch.

He had settled here a few hours ago, content to be of his feet after the two-day walk, but now was not the time for rest. Einar intended to wait out his prey and he needed to be alert for that.

So when the telltale rumble of horses' hooves and bouncing wheels reached his ears, Einar was ready.

The carriage that dawned over the hill was a fanciful thing; a behemoth of red velvet drapes and stained oak structure. Its driver was dressed in the bold colours and faux military garb of Drannese tradition, and the high-stepping horses looked to be fed better than any person Einar had ever seen. But what truly drew his eye was the compartment beneath the carriage; likely for whatever lordling's accoutrements and parcels, it was encased in a solid wood and the only opening covered by a short and heavy curtain. The length of it Einar estimated to be his height, assuming the noble didn't pack his household for the journey. At any rate, it would have to do; the thorns had pricked away at his patience long enough.

As he had planned, the carriage pulled to a stop some feet from the tree he had felled hours before. It had taken much of the early morning and several swings of his axe before the tree had crashed into the road, but the effort seemed worthwhile as the lordling within the carriage sputtered to life.

"Why have we stopped? What inconvenience have you mustered up now, Gregory?" a portly man with - as Einar had predicted - a Drannie accent shouted from the carriage's window. His fury-flashed face matched the drapes quite nicely, Einar noted.

"Milord," answered the driver. "A tree has fallen in the path and the road isn't wide enough to go around it."

"Then unhitch the horses and have them move it!" the nobleman yelled, shooing his hands like his very airs would move his driver along faster.

The driver set to work on the straps of the horses' harnesses, while Einar scurried from beneath the bushes. He stayed low, all but crawling through the grass until he was parallel with the carriage rear. With a practiced hush, Einar darted across the roadway, ducking behind the carriage as the driver led the horses to the tree. With the nobleman inside the carriage once more and the driver occupied by tethering the horses, Einar drew the curtain at the back of the compartment, and sighed at the heavily packed interior.

Scraping bark against dirt grated against Einar's ears, and a quick glance from behind the wheel well confirmed that the driver was now guiding the horses, straining as they were, to drag the tree aside. If this plan were to work, he must move fast.

And so, with snapping branches and a cloud dust for cover, Einar tossed out every small bag and parcel he could reach. The compartment was emptied while the ditch filled, and soon enough, a space made for a Vidarak was carved out.

"That'll do, boys," came the driver's voice. "Best get you hitched and on our way before the master complains the air's too hot for travel again." And since the noise had died down, Einar evidently had until the horses were hitched again to make sure he caught his train.

The driver led the horses back to the carriage as Einar shoved himself into the compartment. Buckles could be heard being done up while soft grunts and hurried efforts were made to situate enough luggage in front of Einar to hide him from any gate guard's perusal. The driver sighed with satisfaction, returning to his seat upon the carriage. Einar grunted, then endured another half-day's worth of jostling down the road to Calestra.

Mid Solanis, 26th of Bre Taola, 453 E.R.
The Far Gate, Calestra, Coria

Einar nearly sighed with relief when the carriage drew to a halt, but with the floorboards above him pressing into his stomach with that pig stuffed in frills, he thought wiser of it.

"Hold it there!" yelled a voice, tinged with Corian and distance. "What business have you in the Trade City this day?"

The driver replied, "Milord wishes to be regaled with tales from the Laughing Maidens, good sirs. We've come to give the Scarlet Mistress our offerings."

That explains all the red wrappings, Einar mused.

"Allow us to search your carriage and you may be on your way," the Corian man replied, much closer this time.

The driver gave his consent and footsteps plodded closer to the carriage. It stopped to open the door - to the fussing noble's dismay - and rounded to the back, where Einar held his breath and waited in the dark.

Light blinded him, when the curtains were drawn, and Einar could just make out the sigil of Calestra on the guard's armour from between two boxes. The man hummed as he glanced over the boxes, lingering longer than Einar liked at the pile that hid his legs, but the man eventually straightened and moved away. "Your affairs are in order, enjoy your stay."

A crack of the whip and the carriage was once more moving, though Einar no longer had to tolerate it. The gate guard had left the curtains drawn, so his vantage point was much better, and Einar watched the guard return to his post and the huge walls of the Trade City fill his vision. Peasants ran along the roadside, as horse- and human-drawn carts milled about. The smells of spice and brandy poured from a nearby tavern, followed by laughter, accented by bells tolling the time. It almost made Einar nostalgic for Bayris, the cesspool that it was.

Nevertheless, the carriage was far enough from the gate, and Einar's legs had long since cramped up in the tiny space, so it was time to be free. As inelegantly as possible, he pushed the bags and parcels away from in front of him, rolled out, and hopped to his feet. With less effort, he blended into the rushing crowds. Even a Vidarak could get lost in plain sight. Well, one that was trained by Wolves and told to keep his mouth shut.

As he walked, Einar took stock of what needed doing while in the hub of civilization. Top of the list was seeing a blacksmith about his axe, as it dulled a great deal when put to felling the tree. There were a couple links on his lamellar that needed strengthening, as well. Of course, supplies for the journey back to Ertain. And if he could get his hands on some information about the mages' city -

His thoughts were cut off abruptly by a man colliding with his shoulder. Hissing at the contact with his worst bruise, Einar frowned at the cloaked man in front of him.

"Ho there, friend!" the man yelled, much too loudly. "My sincerest apologies for my bumbling into you, good sir." He pointed towards the tavern suddenly. "Might I buy you a drink in recompense?"

There. A half-second gesture. When the man dropped his index finger, he turned his palm to Einar and pointed his thumb to the ground. So miniscule a movement one could mistake it for a mindless tick and one would, only if one was uneducated in thieves' cant.

Einar dipped his head in agreement, swiped his thumb across his chin, and strode towards the Bent Copper.

Once privacy was secured in a room above the tavern dining room, Einar grabbed a seat and rounded on the man. "Alright, let's have it. What is it the Wolves want this time?"

"More jewels and more whores to stuff their shirts with jewels, I imagine," the man drawled. "But I haven't a clue what they want with you other than your head. Deserters tend to get that treatment, you know."

"Right," Einar scoffed, sizing up the man as he did. "And I imagine you want a shot at the price on my head? All this effort to get me alone, the thieves' cant," his eyes stormed grey as they narrowed on the man, "We didn't need this much privacy for me to snap your neck."

To his credit, the man held firm, laughing condescendingly at the Vidarak's threats. "Candid as always, Einar." The man dropped his hood and recognition struck Einar; he never forgot a face, no matter how hard one might try to be unnoticeable. "I hope you remember me; I saved you from needing that tattoo redone."

Einar did remember. A lanky Syl with eyes too wide and hands too greedy for honest work, he had been an accomplice on the golden egg heist the Unseen Wolves sent Einar on. His chosen mark of initiation - a howling wolf curled around his right ear - had been completed by a tattoo artist just the day prior to the job, and as such, half of Einar's head had been wrapped in gauze. And of course the first place the guard had swung for was his head - and the swing would have taken his ear, messing up the still-healing tattoo were it not for a crossbow bolt that struck the guard first. Einar had managed to dodge the dying man's last move, leaving only a scar bisecting the wolf's tail and a debt owed to a Syl.

Which apparently was to be paid now.

"Don't care who you are," Einar said. "Tell me what you want or I walk out now."

The Syl smiled at him, the same crooked smirk after the guard had fallen at Einar's feet by his hand. "My name is Eldan. I'd like you to use it, going forward in this business venture."

"And what 'business' would that be?" the Vidarak spat.

Eldan took the time to take off and lay out his cloak, folding it over the back of his chair as he took a seat. With his hands folded in front of him, he regarded Einar with a sly smirk. "Why, thievery of course."

The Syl took the next half hour to lay out his plan. Apparently an influential merchant had a wife with a penchant for wine, and when indulging in it, gossip too. She had let slip to her favourite server that her husband would be transporting the largest sum from their vaults since they had moved to Calestra, and that server had passed it along the grapevine, until it reached a hard-up Syl with many debts named Eldan. What he wanted with Einar was a thief's quick feet, but a raider's knack for killing.

"You bothered me for extra muscle on a job?" Einar sneered, as the Syl wrapped up his machinations.

"You will be compensated, of course," Eldan replied. "And what I need is the expertise of a Wolf. You were one, once. Tell me, how is dear Ilario?"

"Dead," Einar replied, "if I'm lucky. And I have my own issues to settle in Calestra, elf, so I will not be helping you."

He made it three strides across the room, the door handle grasped in his hand, when the Syl pulled his trump card.

"You recognized me as your equal," Eldan spoke with cool confidence, so unlike the priggish bravado he had used until now. "I saved you not just from death but a meek, unworthy one." His eyes narrowed at Einar, a threat concealed within. "You owe me."

In the heartbeat it took for Einar to decide his course of action, so many thoughts swarmed his mind. Possible escape exits - surely the Syl would have accomplices in waiting - and battle strategies - his axe may be dulled but it still could cleave Eldan's head off surely - warred with his Vidarak sense of honour. In his earliest days with the Wolves, when he had met Eldan, Einar had been very open of his faith in Vidar law; how he would see glory brought to his name once a foe finally proved worthy of his attention. He had told the Syl that his life was forfeit as it were, that his death was his atonement, and it meant more to see that death worthy of the heavens' battlefields than a crossbow to the brains ever would have been. Einar owed Eldan, and his honour demanded it be repaid.

With a sigh, the Vidarak let go of the door and turned to his business partner. "One job. Stuff your pockets and then I am clear of this debt."

Eldan smiled, that damnable curling smirk, and thrust a hand towards Einar. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever words came out were drowned out by glass shattering.

Einar spun, raised a hand to protect his eyes from flying shards, hearing boots hitting the floorboards. When he opened his eyes, three men stood before him, leather-armoured and bearing daggers. One had grappled Eldan, holding the Syl against his chest, knife to the throat. "Move and he gets it."

With a smirk, Einar rolled his shoulders, feeling the bruises and aches be overcome with adrenaline. "You'd be doing me a favour there, bacraut*. But," he fiddled with his axe, "honour is a tricky thing." He tapped his belt, drew a line down his thigh. Eldan tilted his head, the faintest nod he could manage.

"I must honour the gods with your deaths."

*Old Norse for a**hole

I took down the more racy post cause I forgot it's a bit more public site than I'm used to. 

But agreed; Ch'dau and Einar are going to be terrible influences on each other lol

Einar: What the cat said.

... That Einar has the best puppy eyes a grumpy raider can have, and will fully employ them to make Sara see reason. 

And still being written lol. Those posts absolutely gave me some fire for the coals, so thank you, Eol! Ch'dau will not be disappointed by the ensuing fight he's inevitably dragged into. 

Well you could complete the renovations if you wanted lol Then give everything a big ole' shine 

It is the bathroom that needs cleaning lol

Hi, my name is CameToPlay, and Eol has started a fan club for me.  Hahaha

Those darn Chindari are so addictive lol. I'm still attached to my Chindari ranger concept that preceeded Einar.

And I'll swap cleaning for work, Eol. Wanna grab a mop?  Maybe then I can get Eins through Calestra's walls lol

I did in fact base Einar's characterization somewhat on Baldur. I thought his motivation for attacking Kratos was so interesting. His desperation to feel, his reaction to his end was so poignant that I had to emulate it somehow. So hopefully Einar will be as euphoric when he meets his end lol

Now I feel less special with my Viking rogue.  But good to know Eins isn't completely alone in the world! Lol

And man I cannot wait for the whole gang to be in one place; I already have some scenes in mind for Einar to blunder his way through. Character conflict yippee!

As one of the new generation and a new player to DnD, this article hits the head on exactly what I love about the game. I only played my first games this past week and already have had such a blast and met so many amazing people. I was also introduced to the game through Critical Role, met my fellow players on Reddit, and got my hands on the PHB in an app first. DnD going digital has helped grow the community and been such a great resource for people like me who previously had no access to tabletop games.

Einar's and my official first post is up! I had such fun writing it that I might just do it again lol

I'll have the Vidarak's entrance to Calestra up soon enough, hopefully later tonight. For now, enjoy my one-handed boi

20th Bre Tola, 453 ER

The shoreline of Lake Haven

The waters that lapped at Felarin's shores had seen many things. They trickled as snowmelt down the sides of the Kharolis Mountains, watchers of stone and the khords that worked it. They raced merchant caravans and lonesome wanderers through the pathways of the Thrace and Indigo Rivers. They saw more than any creature ever did when they sunk beneath the earth to water Sendrian farmers' crops or filled the bellies of Drannese horses. They even carried memories of the heavens, spit and thrown as raindrops, collected with their earthbound brethren. What these waters had yet to witness, however, was the strangest assault on a the mages' city yet.

A man, stripped to his smalls and bearing only a hook for a hand and insanity for brains stood opposite Felarin. Grey-blue eyes kept watch on the marvelous city, almost like he dared it to move of its own accord, as he wound rope round his ankle. His package, a bundle of blue linen and lamellar armour, was tied to the other end of the rope. The man finished the knot, figure eight in shape and surprisingly well done with a sharpened hook, and levelled his eyes once more on the city across Lake Haven.

"Be well and no horseplay," the man warned the waters. "Your nonsense with the woods was trouble enough for me." He waded into the waters til it reached his waist, then dove under.

For a magic lake, the waters were surprisingly like most others the man had swam in. Of course, the salt of the Leema Krags burned like dragonfire whereas Lake Haven's was almost a caress against the eye, but the world beneath the waves was the same. Calmer, more fluid; a world suspended in slowed animation, where a kick propelled you as much as the water. Light penetrated best it could, revealing jagged rock and growing things, and gave enough vision for the man to maneuver with ease. He made certain to place his now-waterlogged package as far from catching stones and winding weeds as possible, and with definite strokes, he swam on.

Eight minutes passed and the man surfaced, filling his lungs with precious air as he treaded water. He gave a cursory glance at the city, closer now than when he stood on the shore but still at least a half hour's journey. Nevertheless, the man drew in a large breath and ducked beneath the waves again, just missing the silhouette floating above the lake as he dove.

The man cut through the waters like rivers, gaining traction even with his metal prosthetic, and his legs powered his strokes. His pack was most certainly behind and just a few feet below him when it caught on something. The man glanced downwards, spying no rocks or weeds about as he'd been sure of before. A frown creased his lips - as well as it could with his cheeks full of air, anyways - and begun his trek anew.

He didn't make it ten paces before his pack was jerked again, with much more force this time. Bubbles escaped into the water as the man grunted his surprise and spun to see what had grabbed him.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

But so had it seemed when he ventured the Felarin Wood, seeing nothing amongst the branches until walls of trees covered his tracks and the sun was blocked by leaves. And so he had taken his axe to the trees, which finally produced a noise amongst the damnable silence of the forest, and the man did battle with nature until he stumbled from the woods by Raven Isle.

With his axe and armour in his pack, however, the man was at a considerable disadvantage within the water. Whatever magical defense the mages put up could not be so mild as a maze of trees, lest Felarin be flying Sendrian banners now. Whatever sunk a fleet of warships was within the waters now, toying with the man.

When the next tug came, the man was prepared. He launched himself to the pack, hook flailing first, and snagged his pack before it could be used against him once more. But his enemy evaded, obviously more skilled in maneuvering underwater than a human, and so the man was left alone beneath the waves, seeing ghosts in every shadow.

Damn magics, he cursed to himself. The Vidarak would lay waste to the lot of 'em if they dared come to the Coast.

But this was not the Artarian Coast, and the man was not with his people. And the silhouette had reappeared.

What seemed to be a shadow of a woman blacked out the lights, almost too quickly for the man to catch, but the strike to his side was unmissable. More bubbles escaped and the man made haste to reach the surface.

This time his glance was not so casual. Keen eyes scoured the waters, searching every break and swell to see that womanly shape. One... Two... Three heartbeats passed and then he saw it.

The silhouette traveled not through the water, but like it was the water. It rippled with the swells, leaving only the smallest of surf in its wake. It made short work of the thirty yards the man had spotted it from and was aiming right for his head.

He ducked below the waves once more, just barely sucking in a breath before he broke the surface again. The shape made a quick turn, sending a bigger wave to crash against the ripples, and again aimed for the man. He kicked outwards, flinging himself back, but the silhouette managed to ram his shoulder still.

The silhouette gave him no reprieve, turning quicker than a Dran who heard a war march, and blew past the man. It caught his right arm, though he felt little of it since so many nerve endings were deadened near his amputation. As for his side...

Oh. He was bleeding.

And it was his hook sticking from between his ribs.

Beiskaldi.*

So preoccupied with extricating his prosthetic from flesh, the man barely registered the trail of surf heading straight for him. But he did notice when he was dragged beneath the water.

He thrashed, side on fire, blood filling his vision as water filled his lungs. He kicked and jerked, twisted and clawed. His feet passed through the silhouette as it did water, as light and the surface were swallowed up by darkness.

The man gasped once, twice, then had no choice but to yield to unconsciousness.

21st Bre Tola, 453 ER

Along the shorelines of the Thrace River

The rapids between Lake Haven and the Lake of Heroes ran parallel to a trade route, from Calestra to Felarin. Many travelled it, as it was the quickest way between the trade capital and the mages' society. Donnic Hendry was one such traveller, with his mule and cart of textiles. His days since leaving Calestra had been spent staring at endless wood, nodding at the occasional fellow traveller, and hours of tedious driving. After the bustling Corian city, the open road was so empty, even if he did see an average of five fellow merchants per hour. All the people clustered in the market, cooing over his rich fabrics. Cooing over them until that damn Drannie set up stall beside him, that is...

Donnic minded the road before his unfortunate time in the trade city made him see red again. Perhaps he could swing by Felarin and offer his surplus to the mages; Alvareon knew those robes were ever in demand. Maybe then the missus wouldn't be so displeased with his light coin purse. How Donnic dreaded returning to Morad and the tutting hen he married back there.

Absentmindedly, he slowed the mules. Surely tacking on another day to his travels wouldn't be the worst thing. Now at a comfortable walk, Donnic let his gaze wander to the raging Thrace River beside him. The rapids and the rocks made for awful fishing, but the salmon didn't mind much this time of the year. He'd seen enough of the silver bellies jumping upstream the past few days that the metallic flash didn't mean much to him until a yell accompanied it.

"Stick, damn you!" a male voice growled, apparently emanating from the silver hook jammed between two crags. Whatever the man said next was cut off by splashing and the hook disappearing. Donnic had to stop his mule to gape when the hook caught onto another rockface a few paces downstream and a soaked man hauled himself onto the shore.

A bedraggled and bleeding man sprawled onto the grass beside the Thrace River. He wore little more than a pair of braies and a large, ornate belt. Around his ankle a rope was tied and when the man dragged his foot a little further inland a bag of waterlogged items clanked onto the stones.

Donnic stared as the man turned on to his side and spewed blood-died water from his mouth. A few hacking coughs later and he slung his flesh hand across his waist, hissing at the contact with a jagged slash across his ribs, and laughed. A mad, cackling thing that bespoke of a weariness beyond limits, that echoed across the waters and spooked Donnic's mule.

"You won't have me yet, you black-eyed bastard!" the man screamed to the sky. "The Varigads enjoy their toying too much!" He glanced at the Thrace and shot a one-fingered salute to it. "You won't deliver me to the Devourer's domain, Skälmader." His lunatical laughter died down, so the man gathered his soaking pack, stood to his feet, and turned to Donnic.

"Ho, friend!" called a thick Vidarak accent, raising the hook high in greeting. "I'm in need of some directions. Might you tell me where Felarin is from here?"

It took a couple moments and the Vidarak's eyes narrowing at him for Donnic to respond. "Ah, you - that is - Felarin's nearly a week from here, ser. It's probably faster by river, but the road..." He trailed off when storms clouded the blue of the man's eyes. Donnic swallowed a new lump in his throat, and gestured at his cart. "I've a couple blankets I can offer you, to cover your bits and dry off with, but I'm afraid I must move on now."

He went to cluck at his mule when a cold metal point traced his jawline. Donnic felt hot breath warm his face, and turned enough to see the mad, but deathly serious glare in the Vidarak's eyes. "Felarin is too far in my condition. How far are we from Calestra?"

"A-a coup-ple days, ser," Donnic choked out around the hook's caress on his throat.

"Take me there. Now."

Donnic went to nod, then thought better of it, and gave a quick "Yes, ser!" to the man's demands. The Vidarak nodded, withdrew his bladed hand, and settled in the back of the cart. Donnic had a thought to mourn the fabrics now soaked with lakewater and blood, but decided hurrying his mule would be the safer option.

The man pressed a cloth to his side, hissing at the roughness of it against his jagged wound. His brow furrowed and he let his head thunk back against the wagon wall. To wake up again, after fighting whatever that shape in Felarin's waters were, and to somehow have his belongings and body together, seemed a miracle. Or a curse, as the man considered it.

For what he sought was what only the gods could give him, and they seemed to delight in their cruel mercies where he was concerned. Einar Holgeirsson shall bring death to his foes but never to himself, he mused.

And as the cart rumbled towards the trade city, Einar, son of Holgeir, thought of all the feats he had managed in the years since leaving his people, and dreamed of returning to them in the arms of the gods.

*Old Norse for b!tch

We could always do a noncanon thing, to flesh out how they'll interact in the campaign itself. Could be interesting to have Einar stop in to the khord blacksmith's shop for a repair on his prosthetic.

Einar was likely still in Bayris, maybe just about to leave the city when HC1 ended. And if my guess of a year has passed between campaigns, then Einar's since made a B-line through the Chindari Plains, ruffled feathers with some of the clans, skirted the border of Sendria because that place is too wacky for even the likes of him, and is likely wrapping up business in Drannon after his asking about for a mage (and general Einar-ness) tossed him down the road.

And I would kill to get some pre-game RP for Einar, mainly to establish his voice. What did you have in mind, Eol?

In an effort to get used to the Internet staring at my writings, I'm going to share Einar's character concept. Would love any input, compliments (all the compliments ), criticisms, or potential RP between your character and my Vidarak raider.

Einar son of Holgeir, son of Gulbrand, born of Embla beneath the bear-faced shield of Clan Kustaaung, came with a roar into the world and seeks to leave with one on his lips. His childhood was spent at sea as much on land; atop his pa's shoulders, the young boy could see the endless waters that churned white foam from black waves and know just how treacherous Skälmader can be. So he minded the waters, learned from his kinsmen the ways of seafaring, learned the law from his grandmother, the clan’s law-keeper, his mother, and elders.

As the law mandates, Einar undertook the Jür Kaelth. If he was to bear the name of his clan with any respect, he needed to prove his kinsmen could count on him. Einar's task was to scavenge a weapon and kill a bull walrus before the moon filled.

So left in the wilderness, he was, and his people’s hardiness served him well; he crafted a stone war axe, a driftwood bow, and bone-tipped arrows. He searched along the shores for walrus herds for three days before finding a trail, and an injured walrus not far inland. From a safe distance, Einar shot the beast, and split its skull for good measure before beginning to skin it.

Another boy from Clan Kustaaung approached Einar as he gathered fat from the walrus, claiming it as his kill and his completion for his own Jür Kaelth. Einar merely laughed and resumed his work, but the boy brought it before the itiirdak, Einar’s grandmother. Of course, the law-keeper ruled in Einar’s favour, stating that though the first boy, named Stian, injured the beast, it was Einar Holgeirsson who fell it. And thus Einar received his village name, and earned an enemy.

Einar, now a man of the Kustaaung kylen, enjoyed his new status. He joined a raider crew just three years on, and continued his people’s legacy of raiding the settled coasts. His ship captain thought Einar, the quick-witted and quick-footed lad he was, served best as a scout; one who swam ashore ahead of the raiding party, scouted the lands for defenses and loot, before reporting back to the ship. A keen eye and foreword made the successes of Clan Kustaaung that much more worthy of song, and Einar reaped the respect of his kinsmen like it were the drink of the gods.

But his fellow Vidarak, Stian Tygvessen, who had to earn his name on new prey after Einar took his, loathed the ardour Einar received. It came to a head when Clan Kustaaung coordinated their fleet to attack a prolific trade port near the city-state of Bayris. Einar led a scout party ahead of the ships, and pinpointed several defense weaknesses that the raiders could take advantage of in the fight. And they did, heartily, and enjoyed carting off new wares and slaves for the kylen. What was lofted the most, however, was the guard captain’s head, which Stian personally saw to liberating from its body, as the captain and his cannons had been a particular pain in the Vidarak’s collective behind previously.

At the celebration, Einar was lauded for his keen eye that watched the slowness which the port closed at dusk, that timed the guard rotations to know where the blindspot was, and surmised that the guard captain would never order his cannons turned inwards to fire at his people, so the invasion should come from within. To him the credit was given for not just a good fight but a glorious one, which saw their foe slain and their riches heaped upon.

To the proclamation, Stian roared, upset a table, and broke through the crowd to appear seething before Einar. “It is my axe bathed in the Bayrisian b*****d’s blood, and to this gutless, thieving vámr goes the glory?” he spewed, then spat at Einar’s feet. With the men that leapt to both sides, there would have been a brawl, but an elder called for a duel instead; “To settle the grievances unaired for so long, let us take to the battlefield, and see who the gods give glory to.”

The duel saw to Einar’s victory, after he landed a punch just so that his fingernail scraped skin and drew blood. Stian saw the thief once more applauded for winnings he stole, and Stian vowed for it to end.

Later that same evening, when the festivities had died down, Einar made for his family’s home, when a great blow sent him sprawling on the ground. Stian stood above, eyes gleaming murderously, a rock grasped in one hand. “You hold the secrets of the world in your hand, don’t ya?” Stian taunted. “I’ll break them with your fingers.” A shadow loomed closer to Einar, and then his world went white.

Over and over, Stian smashed the rock into Einar’s hand. Blood-chilling screams summoned the tribesmen from their homes. All of Clan Kustaaung came to gape at Stian, son of Tgyve, splattered in the blood of his kin, and the pulpy remains of fingers, muscle, and skin where once was a hand on Einar, son of Holgeir.

The following week was a blur for Einar, as he spent it in and out of delirious pain. He woke once with a finger still attached, then three, then they were blackened and unfeeling, and then the final time, with none at all. Stian had been branded and cast off from Clan Kustaaung’s lands during Einar’s coma, laughing madly through it all. He had gotten what he wanted; the death of Einar’s praise. For without a hand, how could the clansmen count on Einar? Even in the eyes of the law, he was without hope.

Einar railed against his fate. He, a warrior of the Vidarak, a faithful servant of his kylen, was to be sidelined at the age of twenty-one? He, the very one they were singing praises for mere weeks ago, was now unfit to serve aboard a ship, let alone in the battles of the gods? He refused it, fought with the elders about it, argued all the points of Vidar law with the itiirdak, and still he won nothing more than heartache. Einar, son of Holgeir, pride of Clan Kustaaung, was shored.

With all of his options exhausted, Einar thought over the life he was to lead. One of a manual labourer, or a shepherd for the clan’s goats; maybe a weaponsmith’s errand boy he would be. He would be honoured for his years of service, but looked down on for his limitations. His hand would mark him as free from combat, but without purpose outside of it.

And then he had another thought.

Of all the places he had been, of all the people he had seen. So many ended in bloody encounters, with he and his people leaving a scorched earth where once stood guards and villages. Most of those unlucky enough to encounter a Vidarak fell in battle. Why could he not encourage battle on his own? Though he may not do battle with his kin, what stopped him from finding his own glorious death? Even were he to die from starvation in the wilderness, least he would have his dignity to see to his grave.

With the blessing of the elders, Einar set off on his own in a spare boat, headed for everywhere and anywhere. He let the currents take him, minding Skälmader not take him out to sea, and eventually found port and went inland. The days blurred into faint memories of campfires and towns, dirty looks from peasants and bloodied lips from bargoers, faint tingles in a hand there no more and dreams of an axe where it had always been. Einar remembers little of most of these towns, but he remembers clearly the first day he stepped foot in Bayris.

A city carved into from the cliffside, levels upon levels of people packed into homes smaller than Vidarak ships, streets lined with merchants and traders and businessmen of every walk of life. The carts that passed through the gates and the ships pulling into port carried more goods than Einar had ever laid eyes on in all his years of raiding. No wonder the Taskarren pirates targeted Bayrisian ships so much; the city was a world unto itself.

To make it even more impressive, Einar faded into the background in Bayris better than he had in any other settlement he had visited. No wary glances, frightened glances; guards tightened their pommel grips at anyone carrying a weapon, not just the one-armed Vidarak. He stood out as much as the half-elven courtesans and dwarven bourgeois; that is, not at all. It was refreshing to not be the only stranger.

Even with that comfort, a Vidarak on a mission to die was going to attract some attention. His fifth barroom brawl ended in Einar sitting in a jail cell. While he debated breaking out or waiting for his release, a cloaked figure cast a shadow from his cell’s window. A raspy, male voice inquired of the smarts for a man to provoke fights with three separate mercenary crews before the week was through, and Einar merely scoffed, asked how it was his business.

“My business is that of others,” the cloaked man replied. “Textiles, metalworks, lives; all of it is the business of those unseen.”

And that was Einar’s introduction to the Unseen Wolves.

The man, a half-elf named Ilario, bribed the guardsman and had Einar released, then began the tests. If Einar was to be an Unseen Wolf, he could not end up in the drunk tank enough for the guards to recognize him. His tasks were simple; intimidate this business owner into paying the racket, rough up the thief that took what the Wolves wanted, be the muscle for a con job, and do it all quietly. Einar succeeded at it all, even impressed when his former scout training helped out an affiliate when he was off the job.

When the recruitment phase ended, Einar was placed under Ilario’s command and mentorship. From the half-elf, Einar learned of subtlety in fights, of checking for traps and hidden compartments, but most importantly, how to use his opponent’s weaknesses. Where once Einar was a raider with an eye for chinks in the armour, he became a master of exploitation under Ilario’s tutelage. He even gained a new hand, a hook.

Einar’s time with the Unseen Wolves lasted just shy of seven years. Seven years spent bribing guardsmen, stealing artifacts, making backroom deals, and honing the skills of an assassin and thief. But Einar grew dissatisfied with the lack of action; his opponents now were traps as much as people, and very few counted as truly dangerous. Until he met the mage from Ertain.

She was a mark for the Wolves, after her gold flashed too brightly and her assistant bragged of their “priceless artifact” they had in transport. The Wolves wanted that artifact, and sent Einar to retrieve it.

Breaking in went smoothly, as did dispatching the guards. The problem came when the mage was seemingly locked inside the room with the artifact. Einar thought a surprise attack –  bursting through the window and getting too close for the mage to cast – would work well. Turns out the mage was more prepared than the Wolves realized.

A ferocious battle between blade and spell broke out. Einar slid past ice patches, dodged fireballs and spikes, and aimed for the mage’s neck when she let loose a blinding light from her palm. When his eyesight focused again, the mage was gone.

Her exit out the window was obvious enough, however, and Einar found himself pursuing the mage through the city rooftops. Once more they danced in battle, her hurried spellcasting erratic as she ran, him enjoying the chase as much as the idea of capturing her. Then she landed a lightning bolt throw just so that it ricocheted into Einar’s hook-hand, and Einar dropped to the ground.

The mage and the artifact got away, and though Einar lived, he was as good as dead for his failure. But he didn’t care; he had found what all these years away from his people had been for. He was going to die by that mage’s hands in the most glorious battle of magic and swords.

With Ilario’s help, Einar escaped Bayris and once more set out on the road. This time his destination was not an unknown, but a fixed point. Northern Ertain; the city of Felarin would bring him the mage, or he would die trying.

Growing up Vidarak has shaped much of how Einar is as a man. He is strong and stubborn, like the unyielding lands of the Coast. He is resourceful and a quick learner, like one must be to survive all that that living as a raider throws at you. He is honourable and mindful of others, as Vidar law commands and the tribe needs.

What being an outsider in every settlement since he left the Coast has taught Einar is that his loyalty is owed to none but himself. If he needs something, there will be no friendly face to give it to him. As long as he is of the Vidarak, he can never be of the world. And that more than sits fine with Einar, as the law and his people is all he cares for. Well, the law, his people, ale, and daggers, that is.

The traits that have defined Einar since his youth – stubbornness and pride – are a double-edged sword; he is a man of great tenacity and resilience, which aided him in surviving an amputation and following lifestyle adaptions, but also is what forced his separation from the only people he can fully rely on. His pride is not such an arrogant thing to think he is without faults, but at his limits, Einar would sooner die than admit he needs help.

For all his lonesome, nomadic tendencies, Einar does truly value teamwork above all. He had to get along with people, lest he be left to starve by the clan. His shipmates needed him to trust them, and vice versa. So Einar is more than willing to work with people, but it must serve his goals. Alliances at this stage in his life, as a man with seemingly everything at stake, Einar treats as pragmatic as-needed affairs. For if the blade at his side would make a better enemy to see him to glory, Einar will choose his gods.