------------- The Chronicles of Taure – Arrathir

The beast was a wolf, or perhaps it was a cousin of wolves,… perhaps crossed with a bear. Lorren had never seen a canine that big, not even the Wargs of Western Edandor. There were rumors of something like that far to the north, beyond the frozen Great Northern Barrier, but none had ever made it over that impassable mountain range into the lands of his home. Now, one was strolling right down the street in Highaven.

But the Fornisir Mountain Wolf was not alone. Its master, if ‘master’ was a good enough term to describe their relationship, strolled beside it. The Half-Elf was all but dwarfed by the huge, grey and white wolf. He bore a bow of odd design and a thin blade of Fornedan steel. The bronze work and polish of his green breastplate said he was an elf ranger, but the partially pointed ears that just barely stuck out past his blonde hair said he was Fornedan. The scroll work and engraving on his equipment said much the same. The wolf and the half-elf strolled as though they were connected by some unseen force. For one of the Skinwalkers of the northlands, as comfortable wearing wolf’s hide as his own, that wasn’t too far from the truth.

Arrathir Tathron had come down from his frozen homeland to see the truth of this Free Haven and its Outlander Queen. It was said that many great fighters and sorcerers would gather here. The intended outcome of these contests was a matter for great speculation and rumor. The truth was, no one really knew what the winners of the contests might receive. Some said that the prize would be in gold, more than a person’s own weight in it. Some said it would be power, a place of honor and position beside the Ladies Nine themselves. And others whispered that the Tournament was nothing more than a meat grinder to cull out all those who might challenge Queen Rachel’s rule. Death in the arena would leave her blameless, after all.

Arrathir had his own reasons for being here. He’d led a life unlike most, a loner’s life. His father lived in a Vannador fishing village, yet Arrathir’s heart was not with mending nets and fighting the sea for a living. He longed for the open fields of snow and the frozen crags of the Great Northern Barrier. So he grew up with his mother in the cold woodlands of the northern Angwaith. But even that was a distant memory. The wolf’s call had found him at an early age, and he in turn had found her, Ysang, his constant animal companion.

After that, he headed up into the mountains bent on never coming down again. But cruel fate conspired to drive him far from his home. The giants had come last fall, as the snows pushed into the forests and lowlands by the Barriersea. The Elven village where he’d spent most of his young life had been destroyed, overwhelmed by the ice and cold. A few, those with some magical defense against the cold like he, had survived. But they were too few to stand against the giants and their monsters. And so he fled to seek aid. Yet everywhere he traveled, none would stand by him or his mother’s people. His search for an army drove him ever onward, south until he at last learned of the Tournament of Champions in Free Haven. Perhaps here he could find the heroes he sought to help the Angwaith of Vannador.

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