VardlokrNo one knows where he came from. He just showed up one winter, silent and sharp-eyed, with a hunter’s gait and a face carved from frost. The name he gave sounded old: Vardlokr. And no one’s had the nerve to ask what it means. He doesn’t chase glory, doesn’t pick sides. He takes contracts, the dirtier, the better. Poachers, raiders, slavers. Men who vanish into the woods thinking no one’s coming. He finds them anyway. He’s patient like that. Yellow eyes, steady hands, and a way of watching people like he’s already figured out where to cut — both foes and allies alike. Cold suits him. So does silence. The others know better than to ask why he hunts the way he does, or how many of his kills were contracts and how many weren’t. Maybe it’s personal. Maybe it’s for sport. |
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