FENRIR | AESIR
JOEL KINNAMAN
name: Æthelwulf
age: 778
species: ELDER ALPHA WEREWOLF
occupation: hunter
+ confident, patient, passionate
- cruel, devious, impulsive
bio
Ulf remembers the day as clear as if it was yesterday, though it’s been over seven hundred years ago. Sword in hand, that particular searing pain only a cruel blade can cause, and the sky so clear it made his eyes hurt. He woke from the daze, shaken by his brother who’s never expected him to become paralysed in the middle of training. It was barely a moment, a kind of deja-vu, this. Steel, a red veil of rage, falling over his eyes. It always did when he fought, to the point where it mattered little who he was facing. Oftentimes the sword master had to break him and his opponents apart, for Ulf became enraged far beyond understanding.
He saw a winding river in his mind’s eye, grey mountains and a man with eyes as blue as the sky. An one-eyed man. A grinning man, a man who’s become a flurry of raven wings and thundering of hooves.
His dreams are worse, and his family, all ancient wolves themselves, ascribe it to the waking bloodlust. But Ulf knows dreams would never wake emotions within him, only memories can do that. By the time he’s thirty he’s been to the Orient, won and lost battles and wars, plundered the Holy City. Always with that insane ferocity that’s left him blind to who he put to the sword. By the time he’s thirty he knows just who and what he’s been in a past life, knows his place on the pyre if he spoke about it.
The middle ages are brutal to his kind, most of them migrate to the North, the islands. For centuries it’s nothing but rolling hills, hunting game and nights by the fire, the happiest days Ulf has ever known. In the late twentieth century he travels Scandinavia, digging up what ever memories he can. An ancient carving here, an ornament there, or the wind-blown landscape that hasn’t changed at all. It’s where the rage comes from, it hammers in his ears, like the call of a drum to war.
Yet again it’s time to lay low, and the modern times prove to be even deadlier. There’s barely anyone left, and those that Ulf knows, dwell deep under ground on their cold, remote island. Perhaps the news of a madman is just another craziness of the world, but Ulf doesn’t seize the opportunity because of hope of salvation. He needs to see, needs to know, needs to make sure that the red veil of rage won’t fall over his eyes at the sight of this man.
THIS CHARACTER IS TAKEN