Braldin Ironhoof

Story
Braldin was born high up in the mountains, amidst mist, snow and dangers. Son of two great champions of a roaming tribe of mountains dwarves, he was raised to be a fierce fighter. When Braldin was eight years old, his father, the great barbarian Fralldun Frostpaw, became the leader of the tribe. This was harsh times, and the tribe was struggling, having recently suffered great losses. Fralldun managed to hold the fracturing tribe together and led them into a new age of prosperity. By the time his rule came to an end, the tribe stood several times the size it had when he took charge.

From the day he turned fifteen, Braldin was groomed to be his father’s heir. The most important thing to learn was the true art of the barbarian, and thus this was the focus of his training for many years. To wield an axe, throw javelins and to slay travellers and animals is one thing; learning to become one with rage, to let anger be your guide and god, is quite another. That is what separates the champion barbarians from mere savages. This is where Braldin succeeded and so many others failed.

At the stroke of midnight marking the beginning of the year when Braldin would turn fifty and finally be considered an adult, the tribe gathered for a ceremony and the young men and women turning fifty that year were sent to the front. Well, not all of them. Only those who had passed their barbarian training. That year it was four of them: Braldin, Randral, Buvot and Tharelda. Fralldun stepped forward and started to tell the story of the tribe, the legend of the barbarians and how the four of them had one last task to perform before their training was over. One final test to see if they were truly barbarians, and to see what kind of barbarians they would be. Braldin had no idea what this meant. It wasn’t cleared up much either. They were told to go off on their own, each of the four their own way. They were not to return to the tribe until they were ready. Until they were truly barbarians. They would know when it was time.

And so, they all went off on their quest. Randral went east and Buvot went west. After saying their goodbyes, Tharelda went south and Braldin headed north. The two of them had been best friends their whole lives, even though their fathers, Fralldun and Thomnil Stormrage, didn’t seem to get along and disagreed on most things. As always, they hit the broad side of their axes together, went into a jumping chest bump, and then turned around and walked off. None of them turned their head, to focused on the task at hand. They would not see each other again for several months.

Over the next weeks, Braldin learnt exactly what it meant to live in the comfort of the tribe. Life in the cold and harsh mountains alone was something quite different. Every day was a struggle to stay warm and fed, but over time he adapted to the cold and learnt how to hunt alone. One day everything went wrong though. He was hunting a bear, having kept an eye on it for several days while preparing traps. The traps and some javelins had wounded the bear, which was now trying to flee. Braldin was following, eager for the kill: He needed the food, and the bearskins helped immensely for heat. They came upon a plain and Braldin let his body be filled with anger as he went into a rage, charging towards the beast. The fight was intense: Even a wounded bear is no easy kill. Braldin dodged, ducked and jumped, circling the animal and timing his strikes. Getting in a good hit was difficult though. Braldin had to be smart, and brave. As the bear lashed out in a desperate attempt to bite him, the dwarf let him succeed, and while the beast was clutching his leg with his teeth, Braldin brought his greataxe down upon his foe, crushing the last life from him. They both fell, the barbarian breathing heavily, in pain yet ecstatic. That is when he felt it, that which he hadn’t heard because of the blood rushing to his head. He could hear it now. It was getting closer. He turned to see the herd of bison running in his direction. He pushed himself up and tried to run, but his injured leg could barely carry him. The herd was getting closer, as he limped towards the raised side of the plains. He was nearly there when the first bison clipped his side and brought him to ground. As he was close to the edge most of the herd raced past him, but not all. How many of them stampeded over him, he never knew; after the first two he blacked out.

He had horrible fever fuelled nightmares of running bison and the sounds of hoofs hitting the ground. When he woke up he had no idea how long he had been out, but he figured it must have been quite some time. Recovering from his injuries took weeks. He knew he had come close to dying, but worse than that was the fact that he had been afraid. Afraid of dying, afraid of the bison. This made him angry. That anger, and the determination to never be afraid again, is what fuelled him back to life.

When fully recovered, he sought out the bison. He didn’t hunt them though. He didn’t hurt them at all. For a long time, he just observed them, learnt their way of life and how they moved. After a while he started to get closer, pushing himself forwards despite his fears. He got further every day. He eventually stood with them, petted them, ran with them. Occasionally he would even ride them. Fear was replaced with a sense of belonging. He became a part of the herd and the herd became a part of him. He was a dwarf and a barbarian, but, in a sense, he was bison as well.

Although leaving the herd was hard, Braldin knew it was time to find his way back to his tribe. He was ready. By now his tracking skills were quite developed, so he didn’t have much trouble picking up the tribe’s trace. When he caught up with them, he was overjoyed. Nobody seemed to reciprocate the feeling though. Some sent him a little smile, others looked serious. No one talked. He was led to his father, and together they walked a bit away to talk in private. He explained that everyone was acting so weird because they were unsure if he had been successful. To see if he had been, he was asked to tell his story, and so he did. When he finished, his father smiled. “So, you have taken the path of the totem warrior, like myself and your mother before you. And you have taken the bison as your spirit animal, your guide and force. That is a bold and rare choice. May it serve you well. Your training is complete. You are a barbarian now. There will be a feast in your honour tonight. For now, I’m certain you have people you want to catch up with.”

That he had, and so he did. He talked to his mother first. Bamobela Mountainclaw was one of the strongest warriors in the tribe, second perhaps only to Fralldun. She had much to tell him now. About what had happened in the past months and about what it meant to be a totem warrior. Barbarian secrets he had not been allowed to know before. They talked for hours, finally as equals. He then sought out Tharelda, who had returned to the tribe a mere week ago. She made sure to let him know that she beat him back, and that she would never let him forget it. They told each other of their journeys. Much had been similar, especially at first. The same struggles and needs, the same lessons and skills learnt. After a while though, the differences appeared. She also had a near death experience, but unlike Braldin, who got to understand and align with his would-be killers, she had entered a rage beyond comparison, violently slaying a pack of wolves. She could barely remember it. It felt almost like a dream. The only reason she was completely sure it actually happened, was the fact that when her mind cleared up a bit later, she was covered in wolf’s blood. This meant she had taken the path of the berserker. At her feast the previous week, she had been given her barbarian name. She was now Tharelda Wrathbringer. And that night Braldin was named as well. From that day on, he was known as Braldin Ironhoof.

Randral had been the first of the four to return, more than a month before Tharelda. He had however not been successful in his quest. After struggling with the elements for a long time, he barely escaped a fight with a bear. He never overcame his fears like Braldin had though, nor did he seek revenge like Tharelda. Instead he fled, and sought out safety with the tribe. Having not been able to complete this last task to prove himself a barbarian, Randral rejoined the common ranks of the tribe. He would undoubtedly always be a skilled warrior, but he would never again compare to the elite barbarians leading the tribe both in and out of battle. Buvot hadn’t returned yet, and after a while they started to suspect that he never would. Months later their suspicions were confirmed, as the tribe’s scouts found his equipment next to his barely identifiable remains. By the looks of it, he had been killed by mountain lions.

Up until their quests, Braldin and Tharelda had never been allowed to participate in any proper fights, only hunting, and a few times robbing some unprotected travellers. After their naming however, they started being occasionally chosen for scouting parties and guard duties, and once even got to be part of a larger fight against a group of orcs. Some of the orcs escaped though, warning their tribe and setting of a war that would last for several years. At times the young warriors got to help with the war-efforts, but mostly they were kept at a safe distance. They had finished their training as barbarians, but they still had many lessons ahead of them. One day they would be in charge, leading the tribe onwards. For this, there was much they needed to learn. Braldin and Fralldun had many long walks and talks about what it was like to lead the tribe and what Fralldun had done to turn problems into prosperity. His greatest change had been steering the tribe from primarily attacking humanoids capable of organizing and retaliating to primarily attacking beasts and other animals. They needed food and materials for clothing, not gold and fancy trinkets. The would still fight humanoids, but mostly in defence and on rare occasions. This quickly reduced the rates of both injuries and deaths rather drastically, laying the basis for the growth and development in the coming decades. What had now happened with the orcs had been exactly what he had been trying to avoid for all these years. They were stronger now though, and seemed able to fight off the orcs. Their toughest enemy when Fralldun took over had been other dwarves, from the closest towns and city. Fralldun had quickly laid down strict orders that no one were to attack dwarves, and made sure to let the dwarves know that they would no longer harm any dwarven travellers. They upheld that promise, and thus the dwarven soldiers left them alone. Fralldun saw this as his most important achievement. These two changes to the tribe’s way of life had great effect, but some greatly disapproved and remained harsh critics through all of Fralldun’s rule.

These days of learning and spending time with family and friends were the best days of Braldin’s life. It went quickly downhill from there though. The grand finale of the tribe’s war with the orcs came, and it did not go their way. Braldin and Tharelda had been kept out of the fight, staying instead with the young ones and the injured. They were waiting nervously when a small group of warriors came running back to the camp. They were fleeing. The battle was lost. The war was lost. They had to leave this area, and quickly.

Both of Braldin’s parents had been killed in the battle, as had most of the elders. Tharelda’s mother Hulindra was slain as well, and her father Thomnil was gravely injured. Having been named successor by the last leader, Braldin took over command of the severely weakened tribe. He did his best to control and stabilize the situation, and tried to lead onwards in the same way his father had. This quickly proved problematic though. His father had been greatly respected for his strength, endurance and his ability to inspire his fellows since way before he became the tribe’s leader. Braldin had not had the time to earn that respect. Furthermore, he found it difficult to be heard and to find the right words. When some of the warriors criticised the rules of not attacking dwarves, who travelled with great riches and resources over the mountains, he could not seem to fully convince them this was the right way. When they spoke up against the practise of hunting rather than raiding, claiming this to be a cowardly life that should not be lived by fighters and barbarians, he was unable to quell the uproar. Braldin would have preferred to raid more, and to spend his days fighting strong, humanoid enemies. The less offensive approach had nothing to do with principle, it was just what his father had thought him, and he wanted to make his father proud. Leaving the dwarves alone was clearly the wisest strategy as far as Braldin could see, but here it was about more than that. His father had held a firm belief that it was a great sin against nature to kill your own kind, and that view was adopted by Braldin as well. Over the next years he gradually gave in to the demands to raid more and to attack more humanoid targets, but he would never accept the killing of dwarves. This would cost him everything.

One night he was surprised in his sleep, awaking to a vicious attack. He bravely tried to fight of his attackers, but soon realised they were a band of barbarians. He got in a few good hits, but in the end, he didn’t stand a chance. He was brutally beaten and injured. When he awoke several days later, he was tied up and displayed before the tribe. The group that had attacked him had been led by Thomnil Stormrage, Tharelda’s father, and he had now taken over leadership of the tribe. For weeks, he humiliated Braldin, publicly beating him and keeping him tied up. When he finally released him, and let him be a part of the tribe, there was no one left who dared stand up to Thomnil. Braldin had no supporters left, and had like that been neutralized as a treat to the new leadership. Thomnil had managed to secure his position without losing one of the tribe’s best young fighters, which there was no doubt Braldin was. Braldin was furious, but at the same time he knew that he was powerless. He had potential supporters, like Randral and the other non-barbarians their age, but none of them would dare stand up now, and Thomnil had the tribe’s toughest and strongest veterans backing him. Furthermore, he was only alive because Thomnil felt safe, and would only live as long as that remained the case. If Braldin started stirring, or Thomnil for some reason no longer felt he could control the situation, the young Ironhoof would surely not be long for this world. Braldin fled in the cover of night, swearing that he would one day return to his tribe, get revenge against Thomnil Stormrage and reclaim his place as leader of the tribe, leading it into prosperity like his father before him.

New Beginnings
For a while, Braldin travelled around the mountains and the forests, being one with nature. This time calmed and focused him, cleared his mind, and though he really didn’t feel like it, he understood that he needed to leave. To be stronger and better than he was, he had to seek out new places and challenges. He had to go to civilization. And so, for the next few years he travelled from town to town: Meeting people, learning lessons and getting in and out of trouble. His life mainly revolved around fighting, drinking and sex, and thus arriving in a new town he always sought out the taverns. And uncharismatic as he was, from there the road often lead to the brothels.

A night in a new tavern, having just learnt that they had a secret fighting pit in the back, he was chatting to four fellow travellers called Tammith, Borivik, Shaumar and Imzel. They were short, stout and muscular for humans, so Braldin was aiming for an orgy that night. He soon figured that seeing him win a fight would turn them on, so he brought them to the back and signed up for a fight. He hadn’t lost a fight for quite some time, making him perhaps a bit overconfident. He would regret that. He was introduced to his opponent, the half-orc Yevelda. She was brutally ugly and about 50 cm taller than Braldin. That didn’t worry him though, he had fought bigger foes and won. Yevelda was a properly annoying smack talker, and Braldin soon got fired up, losing his wits a bit. Subsequently, when the half-orc invited to a bet for the horn he had inherited from his mother, he took it without thinking. Fuming, he entered the pit, but he soon realised what a fool he had been. He was greatly outmatched, and was soon beaten to a pulp. He doesn’t remember much after that, until he woke up in a room at the inn, missing his horn and being tended to by Imzel. She took care of him for a while, and became the first person in a long time he had trusted. Her full name was Imzel Dyernina. It turned out that Tammith and Borivik were her siblings, and they had left for their hometown later the night they met, as Imzel stayed behind. They spent a few weeks together before agreeing to go each their way: Imzel needed to go back to her family for now, and Braldin needed to continue his travels. He was certain that they would meet again though.