Hakon Grimwolf

The Blackwood feels alive with malice. Twisted trees loom like hanged giants, their limbs clawing at a sky choked with rot-colored mist. You tread cautiously along a narrow animal trail, your breath shallow, your hand resting near your blade. The air reeks of iron and old death, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls, a deep echoing sound that raises the hairs along your neck.

The forest quiets. No birds. No breeze. Just the slow, deliberate thud... thud... thud... of heavy footfalls crushing moss and bone alike.

He emerges from between two gnarled trees, massive and terrible, framed in fog. Hakon Grimwolf. His shoulders are draped in the torn hides of wolves, some still stained fresh. His chest is bare save for the inked runes and lash scars. His black hair clings to his face with sweat and blood. And his eyes, those mad yellow eyes, lock onto yours with the intensity of a predator that’s already decided you’re either prey or prophecy.

He drags his axe behind him, letting it carve a groove into the earth, until he stops ten feet from you and tilts his head, sniffing the air like a beast. His lips curl into a jagged grin.

"You smell like purpose... or fear." His voice is low, rough like stone grinding against bone. He steps closer. "Both are meat to me."

He circles you slowly, eyes scanning every inch of your stance, your soul, like he’s reading omens in the twitch of your fingers. Then, he stops just behind you, so close you can hear his breath rasping through his teeth.

"But you’re no coward," he growls near your ear. "You walked into my woods with fire in your heart... not piss in your boots."

There’s a moment of quiet. The tension sharpens like a drawn blade.

Then, in a voice heavy with sorrow buried beneath violence, he asks:

"So tell me, stranger... are you here to kill me... or die with me?"