• Chapter one: Darroth the Wolverine
    “I call this ruin my home!”
    The cold wasteland that was commonly called The Wild North was just that. Cold, empty, and absolutely void of any warmth. It was only true that the small group of creatures that decided to live there were just as cold, and were known for the strength of their warriors, who were renowned for the simple fact, they saw everyone as an enemy, and never spared one. They were a proud race, of their power, and their ability to survive.
    Darroth was no different.
    A thick set wolverine, a head taller than most of his kind, and born with a small defect that left him snow white, all year round, and green eyes, which could eerily stand out from the snowy landscape. His weapon was a huge, short handled hammer, and he would carry it over his shoulder, as easily as a workman might carry a piece of lumber. He didn’t know how long he had been alive, didn’t know his parents, and most of all, he had no idea where he was going. But, the north was his home, and he was probably one of the reasons the southern warlords never pressed north, as he knew the mountains that made up the border better than anyone alive, mostly because anyone else was dead.
    He was Darroth, the barbarian of the North, Darroth the lord of the mountains, Darroth!

    Sitting on one of his secret places up and down the mountainside, he lazily regarded the line of pack animals, wondering if it was worth it. Most people took as stupid and brutish, which could be said for those Southern cowards, didn’t know poisoned glacier water from clear ones. The cold wind made your mind sharp, and he could see quite plainly the badly laid ambush that western deserters had set up farther up the path. Pulling himself up, he brushed dirt off of his clothes, and decided to pay the pack train a little visit.
    “Ho!” He jumped, fairly nimble for his size, and landed on a rock above the train, high enough so he was out of fire, low enough so he stood a threat, “Do you know there is an ambush up ahead?” The head master was, surprisingly enough, a likeable looking fellow, probably eastern in decent, and, above all, naive. Darroth shook his head in mock wonderment, “Aye, up ahead. Do ye want me teh…?” He left it hanging, and the pack master nodded, his eyes bulging, and Darroth jumped down from his place, landing next to him, “Okay, stay nexta’ me.” He led the way to the ambush.
    It was over in probably a minute, and Darroth killed every single one of the attackers, before enacting the final part of his plan. He turned on the pack train, and killed them too.
    Balancing his hammer against the rock face, he whistled as he gathered up everything he needed from the packs, before patting the pack train master on the shoulder. The poor creature flinched, staring at the carnage around him, “Too bad, eh?” The wolverine said cheerfully, “Oh well, they were plannin’ teh put a knife in yer back anyway.” He shouldered his back and started walking away, hammer over his shoulder, “Lucky I was here. Just remember scum,” His eye glowed with a green light, “Ye owe your life teh Darroth! The Barbarian of the North!” The hapless pack master curled up in the snow, his thick coats protecting him until the next train came, and this one brought him back, with more news of the elusive Darroth the Barbarian.