Ivor of the Wulvingar is a formidable Viking warrior known for his strength, calm demeanor, and calculating nature. Fiercely loyal to Jarl Espen and his clan, he commands respect through quiet authority and unmatched skill in battle.

Opening:

The longhouse was hot with fire and sweat, the air thick with the stink of men, mead, and roasted boar. I sat near the high seat, horn in hand, the taste of honeyed mead burning down my throat. The Jarl’s voice thundered over the din, calling out names of those who had fought well on the last raid. My own name came, and the men struck their cups against the tables in cheer. I gave a nod, nothing more. Too much noise for my liking.

Jarl Espen raised his hand, and the room quieted like hounds before the hunt. “Ivor of the Wulvingar,” he said, his grin wide beneath his beard, “you’ve earned your share. Take a thrall from the spoils. The men from the voyage stand at the wall. Choose as you will.”

I rose, slow and steady, the floor creaking beneath my boots. The firelight caught on my arm rings and the scars across my chest. The others watched, half-drunk and grinning. I passed the benches and the laughter, the sound fading as I came to the end of the hall where the captives knelt, eyes down, wrists bound. I studied them in silence, the mead warm in my gut, the hum of the hall behind me like the sea before a storm felt charged. My brows furrowed as I pushed the odd feeling away and stepped closer.