Lords of Chaos
A huge, scarred fighter from The North
A huge, lumbering hulk of a man, some might even mistake him for a small giant at 6’8” tall and over 300 pounds. An observer’s eyes are immediately drawn up to the open helm upon his head, which has a light screen of chainmail, looking more decorative than functional, drawn across his face.
The icy cold water stopped his heart and breath as Magnar leapt over the side of the longboat when its prow ground to a halt against the hostile shore. This was his first wiking – a raid against a walled keep along the coastline. Magnar could not remember who it was they were raiding or why. It had been discussed the night before by the clan, but Magnar was mesmerized by the dancing flames of the campfire he’d been tasked to build, and he paid no attention, nor would he have understood. It had taken him most of the day to figure out how to start the fire, as he was, frankly, quite dim. But persistence, brute strength and sheer size had certain advantages, and so far could overcome nearly any problem. Once his older brother Angus had given him the secret magic of using the right types of wood to rub together to create a spark, it was merely a matter of an hour or two of hard work to start the fire. The rest of the warband laughed at his efforts, but he didn’t understand their mockery, and took their laughter as encouragement. The next day, when the elder Durgan spoke the words of power and struck a bar of iron against a ‘magic’ rock, sparks flew instantly, and the cooking fire was easily lit. Magnar was amazed by the power of this wizard’s great magic, and understood why he lead them.
The raid had not gone well. They had reached the wall and there was yelling and screaming and chaos swirling all around. Magnar stood at the base of the wall, looking over the top of his shield in fascination as sand came pouring over the ramparts, glistening in the sunlight. Then it hit him full in the face. He bellowed in pain, half-blinded, as the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He remembered his brother’s voice telling him they had to get out of there. His brother’s hands pushing him over the saddle of a horse. The cries and sounds of the battle he could no longer see fading in the distance as the panicked animal thundered off with Magnar draped over the saddle like a helpless piece of baggage.
Now Magnar was thoroughly lost. The battle had been days ago. The horse was dead, his pathetic attempts to build a shelter seemed to direct the incessant rain onto him rather than away from him. He did not know if his brother was dead or alive, but he would find him.