Born in the midst of a war. A whelp's cries and mewls harmonizing with the soldiers underfoot. He did not have long to revel in his youth, for his lineage had betrayed him.

Delivered upon atop the highest peak of the Tunglspíra, Rökkur was borne to the head málaliði and his wife. Within the caves that ran underneath the spire, rank was what marked worth, duty to the clan. It was what shaped, what defined, the wolves that lived there. Being the málaliði's oldest son, Rökkur was immediately put to work, training to fight in the war that their Stjóri had recklessly wagered.

The mountain range that the spire stood upon had its enemies. Though walls of impenetrable stone protected them from the flatlands and the ocean, their flank did not have the same shield, and the wolves from the tundra—Ísklær—sought their territory. Diplomacy was attempted, but the moon chief refused, seeking his brother, his right-hand, the mercenary, for assistance. War.

Many bodies littered the grounds of both tribes. Scarlet ran from ice to rock, a river that marked the end of the war. Rökkur's innocence had come and gone. He had no time to be a child. He was a warrior, no matter how hard he tried to fight it; push against it. Refuse it.

And so he ran. Ran, and ran, and ran. Left the spire and all of the death that surrounded it. And now he is here. A man that has changed. A man that has seen purgatory and grown despite it.