Sometimes I wonder why my life is unending cycle of battle and conflict, but
the more I think on it the conflict of my life goes straight to my blood and
bones, so let me begin at the beginning...
As the never-ending squabbles of the fiery Vanir and the battle hungry
Aesir are often wont to do, on a day long past they spilled over into the
grey hills of Cimmeria. My father was among the warriors of the Golden Horde
ranging through the borderlands that day as they viciously pursued their
quarry after the tide of battle turned in their favor.
Heedless of the grim death that would await them if a Cimmerian clan came
across their path the Vanir sought for respite over a shallow river and into
a pastureland, running full boar into a flock of sheep. Swearing at the
delay the began to hack their way through them viciously when they ran into
the Cimmerian lass who was their tender, with a flurry of bone breaking
blows she used her staff to defend her flock and many a Vanirman would have
never again walk without a limp if they'd have survived the day.
The distraction, or the sheep and the unexpected tenacity of their
shepherdess, was enough to delay the Vanir so that their flaxen haired
pursuers fell on them from behind and utterly slaughtered them before they
could incite their revenge on the dark-haired lass.
After their battle rage was spent, and their thirst for combat slaked on
the blood of their Vanir foes, the troop was about to decide the fate of the
Cimmerian girl, when one man spoke up and reasoned:
"We have enough on our clan's hands with the Vanir trying to pillage our
wheat fields. The last thing we need is fell-handed Cimmerians at out back
door with the foul Vanir at our front! Lets us take our trophies, and
perhaps a side of mutton these shades have generously slaughtered for us,
and make our way home in victory!"
The promise of honor -and a free meal- was enough to distract the company
and they made their way north, though not before the young warrior and the
Shepherdess locked eyes... hers full of thankfulness for saving her from the sure
rapine and death that would have followed, and his with a strange feeling he had never known, but
something about the strength of the young woman, standing fearlessly in the
front of a group of Vanir warriors, and something about the chiseled beauty
that reflected in that strength, made him realize that he would have to
visit these hills again.
The temptation of a trade in Wheat Bier, something wholly new to the border
clans who never had anything to do with an Aesir that didn't involve the
point of a sword, was enough to entice the village of the Clan Snowhawk to
allow a VERY carefully watched foray into town on occasion to trade for some
wool and salted mutton to take back north. Though if the town elders knew
the real purpose of the trading trips, a blooming love that crossed a taboo
that was as old as hills, then he would have died as surely as if he was
spying out the town for a raid, and perhaps more slowly.
But nothing could stop them, and the wealth he acquired was enough so that
one day they disappeared, after picking up a wagon loaded with barrels of
his wares packed in mountain snow they made their way to Nemedia. Úlfr never
looked back, for his love for Regan was enough to stave off any
homesickness, though he was seen on occasion in his home village to arrange
for shipments of the wheat bier that was worth its weight in silver in the
distant lands of Nemedia.
This is the tale told to me by my mother, and her lessons in the cultures
of the lands of my blood and the land of my birth helped me in my early
career as a merchant, a smuggler, and often my own caravan guard. But no
matter what land I have roamed into, none have ever truly seemed home, and no
matter where I go it seems a black doom always followed. While my luck was
never fair nor ill beyond what I made, it seems that like the ravens flying
ahead of the thunderstorm, I am the harbinger of some dire fate where ever I
go....
That is why I am called by some the Stormraven, and to this day it the only
name I am known by in many places that I have plied my trade, and to those who have
tasted my wheat bier.
I tend to keep way stations near important centers of my trade, one in
Cimmeria just outside Clan Snowhawk, where being able to pass a fair
Cimmerian has its convenience, and I was even recognized by my grandfather
by -he said- the familiar look in my eyes. I am even tentatively accepted
there. One in the Aesir homelands in Nordheim, where passing as a somewhat
dark Aesir keeps my head firmly attached. One in Nemedia, near where my
father started the trading company I now lead, and of course one near
Tarantia, where my Bier seems to flow continuously into the bottomless
gullet of Aquilonians and foreign adventurers alike.
I keep a supply of horribly disfiguring Stygian poisons that I drop into
"random" (well documented mind you) barrels to discourage thieves, and the
strange and brightly colored corpses the poison leaves makes equally good
deterrents so that I need not go far to restock my caravans that I take from
town to town, and even stopping at the hold of an occasional new lordling.
One fine day as I was spiking a couple of would-be thieves to the entrance-way
of my Aquilonian compound, when I saw a lumbering brute coming down the path,
I acted unalarmed, though I kept my weapon near at hand. I hailed him
cordially and put on my merchant face all the while my hand stayed inches
from the hilt of one weapon or another.
Unfortunately I did not see his slithering companion who stunk of the spices
and silks of a Stygian snake-lover, and that is all I can remember of that day
until now, sitting on this barge rowing. And rowing. And rowing... but what
was that noise?
Have we run aground...... ...?
"I ride an ill wind just ahead of chaos, I am the harbinger of violence who carries a heavy doom. I am he the comes before the storm on black wings. I am Sturmrabe, the Storm Raven."
Sometimes I wonder why my life is unending cycle of battle and conflict, but
the more I think on it the conflict of my life goes straight to my blood and
bones, so let me begin at the beginning...
As the never-ending squabbles of the fiery Vanir and the battle hungry
Aesir are often wont to do, on a day long past they spilled over into the
grey hills of Cimmeria. My father was among the warriors of the Golden Horde
ranging through the borderlands that day as they viciously pursued their
quarry after the tide of battle turned in their favor.
Heedless of the grim death that would await them if a Cimmerian clan came
across their path the Vanir sought for respite over a shallow river and into
a pastureland, running full boar into a flock of sheep. Swearing at the
delay the began to hack their way through them viciously when they ran into
the Cimmerian lass who was their tender, with a flurry of bone breaking
blows she used her staff to defend her flock and many a Vanirman would have
never again walk without a limp if they'd have survived the day.
The distraction, or the sheep and the unexpected tenacity of their
shepherdess, was enough to delay the Vanir so that their flaxen haired
pursuers fell on them from behind and utterly slaughtered them before they
could incite their revenge on the dark-haired lass.
After their battle rage was spent, and their thirst for combat slaked on
the blood of their Vanir foes, the troop was about to decide the fate of the
Cimmerian girl, when one man spoke up and reasoned:
"We have enough on our clan's hands with the Vanir trying to pillage our
wheat fields. The last thing we need is fell-handed Cimmerians at out back
door with the foul Vanir at our front! Lets us take our trophies, and
perhaps a side of mutton these shades have generously slaughtered for us,
and make our way home in victory!"
The promise of honor -and a free meal- was enough to distract the company
and they made their way north, though not before the young warrior and the
Shepherdess locked eyes... hers full of thankfulness for saving her from the sure
rapine and death that would have followed, and his with a strange feeling he had never known, but
something about the strength of the young woman, standing fearlessly in the
front of a group of Vanir warriors, and something about the chiseled beauty
that reflected in that strength, made him realize that he would have to
visit these hills again.
The temptation of a trade in Wheat Bier, something wholly new to the border
clans who never had anything to do with an Aesir that didn't involve the
point of a sword, was enough to entice the village of the Clan Snowhawk to
allow a VERY carefully watched foray into town on occasion to trade for some
wool and salted mutton to take back north. Though if the town elders knew
the real purpose of the trading trips, a blooming love that crossed a taboo
that was as old as hills, then he would have died as surely as if he was
spying out the town for a raid, and perhaps more slowly.
But nothing could stop them, and the wealth he acquired was enough so that
one day they disappeared, after picking up a wagon loaded with barrels of
his wares packed in mountain snow they made their way to Nemedia. Úlfr never
looked back, for his love for Regan was enough to stave off any
homesickness, though he was seen on occasion in his home village to arrange
for shipments of the wheat bier that was worth its weight in silver in the
distant lands of Nemedia.
This is the tale told to me by my mother, and her lessons in the cultures
of the lands of my blood and the land of my birth helped me in my early
career as a merchant, a smuggler, and often my own caravan guard. But no
matter what land I have roamed into, none have ever truly seemed home, and no
matter where I go it seems a black doom always followed. While my luck was
never fair nor ill beyond what I made, it seems that like the ravens flying
ahead of the thunderstorm, I am the harbinger of some dire fate where ever I
go....
That is why I am called by some the Stormraven, and to this day it the only
name I am known by in many places that I have plied my trade, and to those who have
tasted my wheat bier.
I tend to keep way stations near important centers of my trade, one in
Cimmeria just outside Clan Snowhawk, where being able to pass a fair
Cimmerian has its convenience, and I was even recognized by my grandfather
by -he said- the familiar look in my eyes. I am even tentatively accepted
there. One in the Aesir homelands in Nordheim, where passing as a somewhat
dark Aesir keeps my head firmly attached. One in Nemedia, near where my
father started the trading company I now lead, and of course one near
Tarantia, where my Bier seems to flow continuously into the bottomless
gullet of Aquilonians and foreign adventurers alike.
I keep a supply of horribly disfiguring Stygian poisons that I drop into
"random" (well documented mind you) barrels to discourage thieves, and the
strange and brightly colored corpses the poison leaves makes equally good
deterrents so that I need not go far to restock my caravans that I take from
town to town, and even stopping at the hold of an occasional new lordling.
One fine day as I was spiking a couple of would-be thieves to the entrance-way
of my Aquilonian compound, when I saw a lumbering brute coming down the path,
I acted unalarmed, though I kept my weapon near at hand. I hailed him
cordially and put on my merchant face all the while my hand stayed inches
from the hilt of one weapon or another.
Unfortunately I did not see his slithering companion who stunk of the spices
and silks of a Stygian snake-lover, and that is all I can remember of that day
until now, sitting on this barge rowing. And rowing. And rowing... but what
was that noise?
Have we run aground...... ...?
"I ride an ill wind just ahead of chaos, I am the harbinger of violence who carries a heavy doom. I am he the comes before the storm on black wings. I am Sturmrabe, the Storm Raven."