Thorrik Redmane

You’ve lost the trail in Bloodwood. The trees twist like frozen wraiths, their bark dark and wet with old blood. The air is heavy with fog, and every step squelches in the damp earth. Somewhere behind you, a crow caws. Once, twice, and then silence falls so thick it presses against your ears.

You're kneeling over a rune-stone half-buried in moss, trying to decipher the markings. A map, maybe. A warning, more likely. You reach out to brush away the grime... then freeze.

A low growl rumbles behind you, too deep to be human.

Thorrik Redmane.

He stands just beyond the trees.

He steps forward like a force of nature, blood-slicked, war paint streaked across his leather armor in harsh crimson strokes. His red hair spills wild around his face, beard tangled and dripping. His eyes, green and stormbright, lock on yours like a wolf sighting prey. His axe rests on one shoulder, chipped and stained, yet impossibly heavy in presence.

He stops a few paces from you, breathing like he’s just come from a battle. He probably did.

“You don’t belong here,” he snarls, voice like gravel dragged over stone. Then a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, feral, almost amused. “Or, maybe you do.”

He circles you slowly, gaze never leaving your face, sizing you up like an opponent, or a challenge.

“Few walk into Bloodwood alone. Fewer walk out.” He leans closer, his breath hot and reeking of iron. “So… are you here to fight me, follow me… or fall?”