A New Friend

"Raivo," he answered, and took Otto's hand with a firm grip. Not like his handshake meant much after his drunken introduction. This Otto the Younger fellow was no doubt formidable, the type with which Raivo would have used extreme caution in approaching. If sober, Raivo might not have approached at all, despite the wolf scent. A decade in a guild full of thieves and assassins taught him the most important lesson, pick your targets wisely.

When it came to making friends, Raivo had the same policy. Those he could trust included other exiled guild members and bartenders who served him unpoisoned ale. Never had another werewolf come into the equation. This fellow though, Otto the younger, there was something else about him aside from their shared curse that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Well if you're the younger," Raivo said clearly, drunken stupor wearing off over the shock of meeting this man. "I'd hate to see the size of the elder."

Wolfman

“Aye, maybe,” Otto mumbled. He had been on several adventures, though he was not sure if he had a sense for such.

He watched the barmaiden move around the corner. She tilted her head and smiled, though he was not sure to whom she batted her eyes. This fellow seemed like the sort that kept the taverns running well, though Otto admitted he knew nothing of the man to think such a thin.

He looked over the fellow. Despite his witty remarks, the man was fearsome. Such nails! Otto had only seen such daggers on the eagles or wolves! He was a dangerous-looking fellow – and likely an even deadlier werewolf.

“I am Otto the Younger,” he said simply and offered his own large hand to the beast before him. “Pleased to drink your ale.”

More drink

"You just need a few more drinks in ya," Raivo said, slurred nearly to the point of jibberish. Even with the other wolf's sharpened hearing, it'd be a miracle for him to have made out the words. Even so, the giant Raivo had sniffed out must have comprehended what was being said better than Raivo himself.

Full of liquid courage, Raivo slapped the other wolf on the back while shouting at the barmaiden for another round, on him.

"No sense of adventure," he said, and somehow it was more coherent than his previous statement.

Face to Face

Otto had been certain the phrase was not uttered to him. He knew no one there, and few paid him mind. Still, the strange words echoed over and over, pointed at him. He turned on the stool, watching his knees as he turned, and looked down into the other man's eyes.

"Friend, I am going to have to pass," he said with a laugh.

Then, once the smell of the drinks passed, he could smell the blood of the werewolf passing through this one. Somewhere in the ale there was a beast. Otto had not been expecting that. He considered taking the man's offer, but reservation would be better. He had not seen another werewolf in a very long time.

"Sit, if you can manage it," he said instead.

Never Too Many Drinks

For once, Raivo failed to finish his drink. He set it down on the counter, careful not to knock his, or anyone else's over. It might still be needed later, but whether for celebration or to ease pain was a toss up.

His feet hit the floor with a thud as he slid off the stool, arms out for balance. There were more of them, he was sure of that now. Watching the behemoth he suspected talk amongst his friends had confirmed that, drunk idiots though they may be. Perhaps they'd be easier to get along with.

Raivo took his time to confront the stranger, one step at a time, careful not to trip or knock anyone over. Whatever conflict that might arise from such an accident, Raivo would win no doubt, but it would draw unneeded attention. One step at a time, still using his arms for balance, occasionally swaying with his steps until he stood where the other werewolf sat.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Raivo blurted out. Until the words left his mouth, he never once thought there was such a thing as "too drunk."

Watched

Otto drank his first bit of mead. He did not want it to disappear so quickly. He had worked hard for his father and picked up a job escorting some fool chieftan to the mountains for his coin. He did not want the drink to go to waste. As the delicious poison pulled apart his muscle, he found himself thinking lighter and happier things. Helga was refilling drinks. Fin's friends were down the bench drinking. One was nearly on the floor. He grumbled and finished his drink.

The thick hairs on his back stood. He could swear someone was watching him, but the place was crowded, and he was a large man. Of course someone was staring at the massive Otto the Younger. Someone always was. Besides that, he had just finished a long journey home through McLain's foul swamps full of watching witches. A journey like that made a man's hair stand on end for days.

He scratched at the hairs. They still would not settle. He grumbled and turned to the tables where some of the men gambled on stones. The counter was too busy with moving bodies to see anyone. He scratched the hairs and moved toward Fin's friends.

"You boys being good?" he asked, not sure how to speak to the whelps. Of course they weren't being good. They were three strapping young men drinking at the tavern without anyone to watch them. "Not picking fights with an'one bigger than yerselves?"

They were too drunk to understand. Otto grumbled and lumbered to the counter for another drink.

The Tavern

The force with which Raivo slammed his empty glass onto the bar nearly caused him to fall off his stool. Grasping the edge of the counter with his free hand, he steadied himself, head spinning. So his reflexes still worked, in spite of his balance washing away with every drink he swallowed. Raivo took a moment to steady himself, a few slow breaths to make his head stop spinning.

Raivo risked a glance around the room. Crowded, full of faces either new or long forgotten. The smell was of musk, sweat, and ale, plausibly tolerable for a human, but with a heightened sense of smell, Raivo thanked the Gods alcohol dulled the senses. Though one scent stood out. The scent that invoked a sense of familiarity, kinship, and likeness. He was not the only one of his kind here tonight.

Turning back to the counter, he found his glass once again full. At least the wench had the hang of it. He would have to remember to tip her well, if he even made it out of the tavern conscious at the end of the night. Taking a sip, he spun on his stool once more, intent on locating the other werewolf. The brute on the bench might just be him.

"Keep an eye on that one," Raivo whispered to himself under his breath. 

The tavern

A chill ran in the wind and ran through Otto's bones. He paused beside the small cottage, his family's two-room home, and searched the fields to the east. Perhaps his human friends could not smell the unearthly salt that carried from the distant mountains. He turned away, determined not to let it sit on his mind. Tonight he would have the coin to wash his worries away and perhaps see the new tavern wench his brother had eyed.

He walked over the worn road, a dusty, narrow, winding road that led all the way to the naval ports along the great waters. Otto had seen them long ago. He did not think of them now. His mind was on the spiced mead in the tavern just around the mint bush.

The cottages and huts grew dark with the sky, but the tavern was aglow and sang from its bursting yellow windows with song and laughter and yelling. Otto slinked in the door and pushed between the small circles that had formed. The counter was crowded, but being a giant and a warrior, the crowd parted ever so slightly for him. He did not look around him at first. He focused only on the mead.

A barmaiden with red locks and milky shoulders poured the mead. She must've been the girl Fin was so smitten with. Otto grumbled. He wouldn't be surprised if a lot more men were just as smitten with her. He pulled from the counter and found himself a spot at the long bench to watch and to drink.

Raivo Pohjois

[Raivo Pohjois]
Age: 31
Physical Description:

Tall, pale, muscular and hairy. Waistlength, unclean, dirty-blonde hair and chest

length beard of a darker hue that hides a scar from his left ear to his jawline.

He also has many scars across his chest, arms, torso, and legs. Even while in

human form he has dagger-like teeth and jagged fingernails that could rival his

wolf form's claws. Typically dresses in furs and leathers underneath a brown cloak

of plain cloth. Still manages to make his expensive clothes look like rags.

Wolf form is a towering beast with the size and color of a lion, though the build

and form of a wolf. His eyes change from blue to green when he transforms, his

hair from dirty-blonde to yellow-gold.

Tribes: Works as a sellsword, formerly for an expansive guild network until he was

banished for killing an enemy by biting them in the neck (which happened in human

form).

Affiliations: James Purdy, leader of Irish guild chapter, former friend
Henry, Raivo's best friend, bartender and inkeeper of The Golden

Wolf, Raivo's favorite pub



Rank: Currently a freelance sellsword.

Family Bio: Son of Tuuli and Bridget Pohjois. Tuuli was a viking raider who

settled on the island after the force he was part of failed to conquer it. Bridget

was the daughter of a local brewer. Raivo was their only child, as he was

problematic and prone to tantrums. Eventually the family became embarassed by him

and moved deep into the wilderness where they lived off the land and Raivo learned

many of his survival skills.

Brief History: After years isolated in the wilderness with just his parents, a

pack of wolves found their cabin and attacked. Raivo escaped with a bite that left

his left hand permanently scarred. Having been taught how to hunt by his father,

he tracked down the wolves and sprung a surprise attack on them one morning while

they slept. This fight he managed to escape with some scratches, minor and major,

but which all healed eventually. Ravio believes his condition can be traced back

to this day.

One winter game became especially scarce and he was forced to migrate to the

nearest city where he spent his teen years theiving and selling. These connections

led him to a greater purpose, with higher returns, assassinations. After making a

comfortable living and valuable connections, he is introduced to the guild, who

sets up contracts with various clans. From then on he fought for whichever clans

paid the highest, but among so many others unlike himself, he made it a point to

never kill any other norsemen.

Morality: Ravio is a firm believer in the "Eat, drink and be merry" philosophy of

Epicurus.
Strategy in War: Head on, dual wielding.
Strategy in Social Situations: Telling and listening to war stories is his

favorite way to meet and learn about others. If someone doesn't have a battle

story to tell, they're not worth talking to unless they're providing you with ale.

Best Characteristics: Strength, battle prowess, dedication to ancestry
Worst Characteristics/Flaws: Alcoholism, short temper, recklessness/impulsiveness
Fears: The unknown, what may or may not be hiding, waiting to attack from the

shadows. Large, empty/open fields unsettle him but are not necessarily a fear. He

prefers crowded and cramped places, forests or cities, kind of the opposite of

claustrophobia.
Favorite memories: First battle. The adrenaline rush, pure extasy in the thrill of

hundreds fighting and dying around him, and doing some of the killing himself.

Otto

[Otto]

Age: 26

Physical Description: A lean warrior with thick dark brown locks, round brown eyes, a thick jaw and wide nose, big hands, and scars across his shoulders, left cheek, and waist. He stands at 18 hands high (6 feet) in his full height, but because of his frequent transformations, he has a lazy slouch about him. He moves slowly but with strength from his thick arms. His wolf form is extremely dark as he lacks the bright yellow eyes; they are very dark and blend well with shadow. As a werewolf, Otto still stands at five feet and can reach speeds of 25mph. He is still a slower wolf, but he is strong and can quickly dispatch his target. Otto has learned from his father how to train both his human and wolf forms.

Tribes: McDonough (warrior)

Affiliations:

                Marian, sister (22)

                Fin, brother (24)

                Otto the Great, father (66)

                Sidara, mother (deceased)

                Oxley, blacksmith and best friend

Rank: Second-in-command in clan army

Family Bio: Otto was a great warrior in the golden days of McDonough’s tribe, known for tearing man and prey alike with ease. Because of Otto’s great prowess in battle and in the hunt, no person or dog starved under the tribes colors. Otto’s curse passed on to his children, but none inherited it as strongly as young Otto, named after his great father that he may be a hero as well. Sidara, his mother, was stolen by another tribe but was also a fierce warrior. She slaughtered her captors, but on her escape, Fenrir’s blizzard froze her in the mountains. The younger children, Marian and Fin, enjoy peaceful lives though they are sometimes jealous of their powerful big brother. Marian is a songstress and a great horse woman. Fin is a better archer and often brings home prey thrice his size.

Brief History: Otto was born to a pair of great warriors. He was raised on stories of his father’s glory. His mother trained him in the ways of the bow, and his father taught him to use his power as a werewolf both in wolf form and in human form. Though after his skirmishes with the neighboring tribes he is boisterous and proud, Otto is actually quiet and keeps to himself. He spends his spare hours teaching his siblings to hunt and entertaining his elderly father.

Morality: Otto is fiercely loyal to personal friends and will give up his glory to his tribe for a loved one.

Strategy in War: Brute force

Strategy in Social Situations: Wallflower. Otto will wait in the dark with arms crossed as he waits for an interesting or relevant topic to come up. He rarely engages a conversation but will escalate one.

Best Characteristics: Kind, loyal, dedicated, honest, even-tempered

Flaws: Dim-witted, unforgiving, sporadic

Fears: Losing loved ones (especially to blizzards or wolves), lepers, great heights

Favorite memory: Watching Fin carry a black bear home by himself and then eating it with his family

A beast is born

[Name]

Age:

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Affiliations:

Rank:

Family Bio:

Brief History:

Morality:

Strategy in War:

Strategy in Social Situations:

Best Characteristics:

Worst Characteristics/Flaws:

Fears:

Favorite memories: