From the North



Born into a noble family, he was named Thorir Starrisson. It wouldn’t be long until his father sent him away to train and become a squire to a noble Thane of Jarl (King) Tremok. Thorir spent his years training and quickly impressed his Thane of his tenacity, his focus and his drive to become a knight like his mentor.

Joining his Thane’s side as they are called to war, Thorir does his best to aid his master and mentor. The fighting only became more and more grueling and deadly. Their opposition, rebellious barbaric tribes hell bent on bringing back the old ways and saw the Jarl’s push to progress as an insult to their traditions and way of life.

During a patrol, Thorir and his mentor were ambushed. Dozens of soldiers slaughtered with only a handful left alive, Thorir being on. His mentor brutally cut down and beheaded. The young squire was bound and taken back to the barbaric war camp. There, they planned to perform ritual sacrifices upon the prisoners. First, they celebrated their victory. Songs sing in tongues that Thorir has never heard. Drums thundered through out the night as they feasted, drank and gave into their more carnal desires with no care in the world. This, of course shocked Thorir, but he did not find himself afraid. The ancient songs, the beating drums and roaring horns called to his ancient blood. Before he knew it, he had fallen into a trance.

A fare and beautiful woman, wearing a thin gown, sat next to him and laid a gentle hand upon his brow as he lied motionless upon the ground. Thorir clearly knew it was not real, but it was not a dream. His eyes upon to look into the woman’s eyes as she spoke in a soft, divine tone, “Give in to who you truly are. Look inside yourself and find who you are and follow your destiny. Come and find me, the mother of the old ways.” A sudden jerk and he awakes from his trance, his eyes open to the view of the barbarians kneels around him, waiting and watching. A respected shaman stood before him, Thorir’s hands and feet still bound. It was already day and he looks around once more to see the bodies of his fellow prisoners handing upside down, their throats cut and bled out. Thorir watched as the Shaman drew a seax (war knife) and knelt before him. His initial thought was that he was going to be killed just like the other prisoners. The shaman made a quick jerk of her wrist and freed Thorir of his bonds. She helped him to his feet and guided him to a ritual circle of ancient tunes, “Kneel…” She commanded in the common tongue he spoke. He felt compelled and drawn to her command and did as she told, kneeling. The barbarians encircled them, they began to chant. The shaman tore open Thorir’s tunic and shirt and ran her hand down his chest. As Thorir closed his eyes, she began to carve ancient tunes into his flesh. Thorir knew better than to scream or show any sign of pain. For what felt like hours, the squire endured the pain of the ritual. The shaman pulled back her animal skull mask and grinned. Throrir snapped back into reality as he could hear a small group of barbarians become infuriated that the shaman allowed an outside into their circle. One charged forth lunging at the shaman with an axe in hand. There was a for of power that rushed through Thorir’s body and he jolted up, intercepting the charging barbarian and grappling the barbarian’s hands then kneeing him in the lower torso, following it up with a quick hoist and throw. The barbarian released his axe and without hesitation, Thorir drove the axe down at the Barbarian’s neck, decapitating him. Another barbarian charged forth with a sword reared back and going in for the kill. Thorir raised his axe in defense and caught the sword between the blade and shaft of his axe, parrying it aside. With his free hand he punched his opponent throwing him off balance. Thorir then sunk his axe deep into the chest of the barbarian. Falling to his knees, the barbarian released his sword and began trying to such in breathes, the pain sending his body into shock. Thorir leaned down and took the sword and began pacing around his defeated foe. He raises both of his arms as he stops just behind the defeated foe, “I offer to you this sacrifice. I offer to you my being and my heart. Take this blood Mother of the Old Way, take me, my Blood Goddess!” Thorir’s blade struck true and decapitated the barbarian. Quickly, the other barbarians gathered the blood of the fallen barbarians into large bowls.

The shaman stepped up to Thorir and placed her hand upon his shoulder, guiding him down to kneel once more. Thorir felt a warm liquid wash over his body. Upon opening his eyes, he realizes that he was bathed in the blood of his defeated enemies. He rises and meets the gaze of the shaman. She speaks, “Go and meet your destiny…” the barbarians begin to make a path for him, one placing a wolf hide cloak over his shoulders another handing him the heads of the barbarians he slayed.

Thorir made his way back to his army’s camp, covered in now dried blood, a sword in one hand and two barbarian heads in another. Anyone who knew who he was died in the ambush, so he gave his allies a fake name, Eirik and told an elaborate tale of what happened. He dare not say what truly transpired. When the army marched to find the barbarian camp, they found no one, just corpses, mostly of those captured and the two barbarians missing their heads. Weeks went by and there was no sign of the barbarians, it was as if they vanished and disbanded. Rumors began to spread the camps of how Eirik (Thorir) had slain the leader of the barbarian war band. Then the rumors turned to fact and Eirik became a sort of hero who ended the bloody rebellion.

It would not be long before the army marched back to their posts. Eirik though, was summoned by Jarl Tremok. Jarl Tremok wanted to meet the squire who single handedly ended the rebellion. Of course, Eirik (Thorir), played humble, “It was not just I, my Jarl. The patrol I was serving fought bravely, I simply saw an opportunity and I took it.” Jarl Tremok could see a calm storm within this squire and knew the young man before him was going to be something greater. “What is your name lad?” Eirik (Thorir) answered, “Eirik of House Krigsgaldr.” House Krigsgaldr belonged to his Eirik’s (Thorir) Thane. Tremok’s face frowned a bit, “Your Thane was a good man, we shall feast to his victories and celebrate his brave passing. You on the other hand, have shown your people that you are far more than a squire. You have shown me that you are more than a knight. For what you have done, I present to you the title of Thane.” Thorir knelt down and bowed his head. A stinging feeling was felt taking his back as he knelt down to the Jarl, but he held his calm. Rising up, he accepted his new duty.

Some time would pass and Thorir used his rank to spend a lot of his time studying, hidden away from prying eyes. He was drawn to locked away libraries within the castle, where ancient art of magic, texts and history were. This was his peace, or it should have been, but the more he learned the more his spirit wanted to burst free. The more he read, the more the words called to his blood. Soon the castle felt like a prison and the civilized luxuries made him feel like a slave.

One day, the soon to be daughter in law to the Jarl, followed Thorir to his hiding place. For awhile, she simply watched him. She became intrigued when he began to speak an ancient language she had never heard and he began to perform magic. She eventually stepped from her shadows, she did not try to surprise him, she wanted him to know. Thorir did not know what to do. A part of him felt like he should keep her silent, but then he had a better idea. For days, they would meet in their secret hideaway, Thorir teaching her about the ancient arts, about the wild barbarians, about her true heritage. Eventually she even opened up to the Mother Of the Old Ways. Thorir could sense a troubled mind within her. She explained that she feared her husband to be. That he was a cruel man and she would live a life as a slave under him. She also feared returning home, for her family would not allow her return. Thorir comfort her then the blessing of the Blood Goddess came to them as a conspiracy, a plot to set the Jarl’s Daughter in law free, but it came at a great cost.

The night before the girl’s wedding, she let Thorir into her bed chamber and hid him. The girl called to her husband in a secret message, it was taboo for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. He soon came to her, his mind already undressing his fiance before they even married. This played to Thorir’s advantage, the horny prince was so wrought with pervasive thoughts that he would not expect what was about to happen. The prince called off the guards, he wanted his woman all to himself, he did not want anyone eavesdropping. The prince entered the room and the bed was surrounded by lit candles, the room dimly lit. A grin upon his face, the prince made his way to the bed. His fiancee playfully pushing the prince upon the bed. She grins and softly speaks to him, straddling his torso while doing so, "If we do this tonight, we do it how it is done in my lands… " The prince, at a loss of words only nods in agreement. She playfully binds his wrists, then his feet and finally blindfolds his eyes. She giggles, only further exciting the prince, as she climbs off him. Thorir shows himself, clad in his armor, wielding the sword of the barbarians. He quickly muffles the mouth of the prince with his hand, the prince quickly realizing danger. Thorir begins to chant in an ancient language and soon speaks clearly, “Mother! Take this blood offering and protect your new child, Princess Ilya, set her free!” With that, he plunges his sword directly into the heart of the prince, killing him almost instantly. With no guards, Thorir could take his time. He strung up the prince’s corpse with each arm bond to a bed post, hanging off the ground in a display. Thorir then disemboweled the prince, letting his entrails hang free. With the blood, he left a message, “Our daughter is coming come…” He made a false trail of blood leading to the window then shattered it inwards to look as if the room had been broken into. Thorir and the princess then made their escape, her self disguised, and Thorir driving the horse onward with her. They made they’re escape into the night and never turned back. Thorir never turned back, and once getting to a border town where it was safe, he left Ilya and he continued on.

Tremok was never the same, his son murdered, by who be believed was his rival nation, their peace by marriage destroyed. This led to a brutal war, a war Tremok won, but at a great cost. The countless lives lost due to Thorir and Ilya. To this day, every moment Thorir lays his head to rest, he hears the beautiful voice of a woman, his goddess, singing to him. At times he joins in and she calls him Mordare, her Mordare.


Southern Ragon (World of Al'Dravin) Zorzech