Here is an introductory post. Taking place probably a few months before the present time in the story, to account for travel time and such.
The cold grasp of winter was leaving the land, a sign that soon the tribe could begin working on the fields and planting the crops that would get them through another winter. The winters were still brutal, but not as brutal as they had been since the defeat of the evil one. It was a time of celebration and the tribe, young and old, gathered around a great fire to hear the stories of the great warriors of old. Men and women, larger than life, that had defeated great dragons and trolls, men who slew wolves the size of great bears that attacked villages, and heroes who had gone off to war taking part in great victories. The old bard, the tribe’s master of tales, continued, voice strong despite age. The mood of the celebration waxed and waned with the tales, sombre to jubilant, sadness to joy. The oral stories acting as the focal point and heart of this community, small as it was. One story ended with the slaying of a great troll who had terrorized a nearby village, eating its livestock, and exhausting that, its children. A great warrior named Bjorn had fought the troll, skewering it with a great spear and, showing a great feat of strength, had torn its head from its shoulders. The people roared with the climax of its collective memory. Silence fell as the old storyteller raised his hand, supplicating the village. “And now, friends,” he began, his strong voice deepening and gaining strength, “we hear the great tale of Ulfr the Wolf King...”
The young lad ran, heart racing and lungs burning despite the cold and the snowfall that seemed to be thickening by the second. Behind him the excited wailing of the wildmen and their beasts seemed to be snapping at his feet. The boy tripped over a log, turning what could of been his end into a roll. His fearful excitement was uncontainable as he let out a barking laugh as he evaded his pursuers. He knew his path well, dodging around and underneath the snowladen trees. In the near distance he saw his destination, a huge beast of a man, his shield and armour seemed to belong to something unearthly. He held a great spear whose haft looked to be as thick as one of the boy’s legs and whose spearhead looked lethal in size alone. “Get down boy,” the figure seemed to snarl. The boy needed no more encouragement, and dove to his stomach as the spear flashed overhead followed by a wet smack and a thud as the spear drove through a hound that had been close on his heels, through his handler, and wedged itself into a tree. The boy swore that the tree seemed to split down the centre.
At this the figure drew his sword, the enormous blade looking normal in the man’s great hands. The figures who had been pursuing the boy came to a halt at this, obviously cowed at the immense man before and their recently skewered friends. The boy, now hiding behind a tree could sense the indecision and the second thoughts they were having, and fought to suppress a laugh. From within the crowd a wavering voice called, “He’s alone, just one man.” At this they charged him.
The first few fell through a thin covering into a ditch, impaling themselves on sharpened sticks. The momentum of those behind pushing them down, crushing them. As they crossed it seemed to these men as if shadowy wraiths appeared all around them, cutting them down as they charged. The great man also seemed to explode off of his feet charging into the confused mass of bodies. Screams of agony erupted from those once confident in their purpose as the hulking figure reached them. The boy watched, mesmerized, as the figure, despite his hulking size, moved quickly and with purpose. Parrying a blow here, hacking a limb there. The figure and his allies that seemed to materialize from nowhere made quick work of their enemies, who whole butcher lasting less than a minute.
The figure turned to his second in command, “Brand, they seem to be better equipped and larger than the last raiding party.”
“Yes Old Wolf, that they do.”
“Brand, don’t call me that, you are but a few summers younger than I and an equally capable warrior at that.”
“Yeah,” the captain replied laughing, walking to the spear imbedded in the tree, “if I am your equal, why can’t I do that.” He heaved on the spear, but it refused to budge. The hulking figure strode up to it, “Ehh, it’s not my fault that your wife is the strong one in your household, and her rabbit stew seems to have made you soft.” He grabbed the spear with one arm, yanking it from the tree with what seemed like a minimum of effort.
Looking to wear the boy hid he called, “Rabbit, get over here so we can leave this place and these wretched corpses.” He and his men turned to leave, “And good work boy.”