Thordic Strongfellow

Thordic Strongfellow was a prince to his people, and well liked by those that followed him. He was a strong Viking warrior, and everyone relied on his berserker strength to win many battles, and skirmishes. A Jotun attack on his village left him broken, and beaten, but not dead. He was found by a Reman Cleric that nursed him back to health, and he came to realize he was the only survivor of his clan.

Vowing vengeance against those that brought him more pain than he ever thought possible he set his sight on becoming strong enough to make them hurt more than they hurt him. Along his journey he has saved lives, made friends, and though this he has started to rebuild the family he lost during the Jotun attack.

Though he is cheerful, and shares his tales with others. Deep down his heart still aches for what was taken from him, and when he needs it that is where his rage comes from. Protecting his friends, keeping those he cherishes save is what matters most, and he will give his life to never see his new clan be decimated like the one before.

Strongfellow Family Tree Ordic Strongfellow was a Jarl to King Jorsef Vlorian, but the king killed his wife in jealousy, and that’s when Ordic created the Black Root Clan. The clan consisted of his five sons, their wives, and their children, but many that followed King Jorsef came to pledge fealty under Ordic.

Ordic never took the title of king or Jarl any longer. He fled from his home to become a

chieftain, and talks spread of how just he was with his subjects, but it was during this departure that he ended up in the realm of the Dawn Lands. His longships were caught in a raging storm, and they washed ashore in a place they had never seen before. They moved around until they found a place to put down roots, and accepted coin as sellswords, but if what was asked wasn’t something they felt morally right, they wouldn’t do it. This gained him honor, and favor among many of the races due to his steadfast, and integrity. They knew that if Chief Ordic took up arms against you, then something was wrong, and with the might of his full clan not many could stand against him.

Ordic’s eldest son, Tyrel Strongfellow was the one to succeed his father, and continued the reign as his father did, but many of his brothers felt they could make more money if they followed their own path. They separated into four different clans, but they swore to never take up arms against each other, and that oath stands to this day, but it’s hard to know who comes from that ancient bloodline.

Some fight for gold, some fight for honor, some fight for the fight, but all of them fight for love. When a Strongfellow gives you their heart, it is for live, and they will stand against the very gods to keep you safe. They worship the old gods of Norse, but the ones they truly worship is those they have fallen in love with. They might throw a sacrifice or say a prayer to the old gods, but they do it in the hopes of being granted a boon to help in what they need.

Tyrel begot a son he called Hurlean Strongfellow, and the Black Root Clan grew in prosperity under his rule. Hurlean was widely respected by all the races for the way he handled situations that would’ve most likely ended in bloodshed, but if he couldn’t find a peaceful solution then war would come. He didn’t like fighting battles, but just because he didn’t like it, doesn’t mean he couldn’t do it.

Hurlean begot a son he called Baulder Strongfellow, and under his rule the clan gained more respect. He no longer accepted coin to stand against the other races, but offered a solitude to any seeking refuge, and provided a place where two could meet to negotiate peace without fear of being double crossed. He stood against the orcs, but mostly Jotuns of The North.

Hurlean begot a son he named Thordic Strongfellow, and unlike his ancestors Thordic was more aggressive. He still held some wits of his ancestors, but if provoked he would throw caution to the wind, and a bloodlust would overtake him. Many believe it was a curse that the Jotuns placed on him due to his father’s ruthless attacks against them, but it couldn’t be proven. It was under the rule of Thordic that the Jotuns came to take revenge against the Black Root Clan, and it was the decimation of the clan.

Thordic fought valiantly against them, but they were too many, and too strong. They destroyed the home that his ancestors built, slaughtered the people that swore fealty to him, and thought they had left none alive, but as luck would have a Reman Battle Cleric found him, and nursed him back to health.

Now he tries to rebuild the lost honor and glory of his ancestors.

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Thordic Strongfellow after the Crimson Harvest at Lullin

In the brutal murder at the court of Lullin, many brave adventurers died. One among the fallen was Lucia Valeria Strongfellow Metellus—a woman of many titles: Reman Soldier, First Spear, Adventurer, Battle Cleric, mother, daughter, and the loving wife of Thordic Strongfellow. Thordic, a Norse chieftain and staunch friend of New Rome, was away leading his campaign against the Jotun menace when his wife was slain by the vampires. He grieved this fact, feeling the twin burdens of regret and guilt for his absence during the Crimson Harvest of Lullin. Driven by this profound loss, he sought nothing less than bloody revenge and righteous justice, putting out a desperate and furious call to action for all warriors who would hear him.

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In the great hall of stone and timber, beneath banners still wet with the blood of

battle, Thordic sat upon the high seat. Before him lay a feast fit for heroes—roasted boar glazed with honey, trencher bread still warm from the hearth, horns brimming with dark mead. Songs rose in the rafters, and warriors sang of the day they had driven the Jotunn from their borders.

Yet the lord of the hall did not join their mirth. Though victory crowned his name, unease coiled in Thordic’s chest like a serpent beneath the hearth. His smile was a hollow thing, offered to those who passed. He waved away cup and platter alike. As the moon climbed the heavens, a heaviness took root in his heart—ancient, unshakable—and the taste of ash filled his mouth.

Then the omens came. Black-winged messengers of the Allfather swept into the longhouse, their cries shattering the song. They circled the feasting fire and settled upon the empty seat at Thordic’s right—the place that had belonged to her. No words passed their beaks.

None were needed.

The lord’s heart cracked beneath the weight of understanding. Tears welled but found no freedom. He bowed his head and let grief wash over him for one breath, one heartbeat, before rage rose to fill the hollow it left behind. He rose, towering as a storm above the table, and with a thunderous crack brought his fist down upon the oak. “Bring me my horse,” he commanded, his voice low and cold as iron drawn from the forge.

Men leapt to obey. The ravens, their duty done, vanished into the night sky. And Thordic’s thoughts turned toward Lullin—the distant court where warriors had gathered. He had not gone, his blade needed here against the Jotunn. Perhaps it had been Odin’s hidden wisdom that stayed his hand. Had he ridden with them, his life—and the Black Root—would have perished beside hers.

The doors groaned open once more. “Your steed awaits, my lord,” came the call.

Thordic strode into the night. The chill wind cut his face, carrying the scent of pine, smoke, and the faint sweetness of spilled mead. Lantern light danced along his warhorse’s flank as he ran a calloused hand over its hide—the ritual of readiness. But before he could mount, a carriage rumbled into the courtyard, its wheels heavy with sorrow.

Upon the bench sat Xanith, Obi, Summer, John, and a woman he did not know—warriors weathered by battle, their eyes cast low. The look upon their faces told him more than any tale: this was no triumph they carried home.

Thordic opened the carriage door.

There she lay—his heart, his oath, his wife—silent and still. Her skin bore the fury of the battle unleashed: gashes torn by claw and fang, a bite deep upon her neck. Yet even in death she remained as he remembered—serene, beautiful, untamed as the winds of the northern fjords.

The lord of the Black Root climbed into the carriage and gathered her into his arms. His calloused fingers brushed a lock of hair from her brow, and then the dam within him broke. Tears cut unfamiliar paths through the grime and scars of his face. He kissed her forehead; the coldness of her skin sent a shiver down his spine. He unleashed a roar that shook the carriage, startling the horses into panic. “Odin…” he began, but the name died on his tongue. His gods would not be the ones to call upon. Hers would. They held her soul now, and they would be the ones he must face to bring her back.

His body trembled; his heart ached with a pain no blade could carve. Gently, he laid her back upon the fur-lined floor of the carriage. “Close the doors,” he said hoarsely as one of his men stepped near.

“Chieftain…” the warrior faltered, then asked softly, “Shall we prepare the funeral rites?” Thordic shook his head, fresh tears spilling as he spoke through a voice as fractured as his heart. “Close the door. Tell Xanith to turn us toward New Rome. I will take her there. I will speak to her gods… and I will bring her back.”

“As you wish,” the man whispered, closing the door.

Outside, Thordic heard hushed voices, the creak of wheels, and then the slow roll of the carriage setting forth. Some of his men would remain to guard their home, but most rode with him. He cared nothing for the land or the keep behind him. All that mattered now was the woman lying still in his lap.

He rested her head upon his thigh and ran his fingers through her hair, as he had done countless times before.

He would see her soul returned—or he would burn Mount Olympus to ash trying.

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“Warriors of the Black Root, kin of hearth and blade — hear me.

They came to the court of Lullin not as men seeking justice, but as vipers in silk. They stole from us more than honor: they took the breath from one I call my life. They robbed me of the woman who steadied my hand and warmed my bed. They dared to wound the heart of the Black Root — and for that they will answer in blood.

We have held our homes. We drove the Jotunn from the lowlands and kept our kin from the cold maw. Yet those fiends still sit behind the gates of Lullin, fattened on lies and courtly poison. They think a name, a coin, or a mask can hide what their hands do in the dark. They are wrong.

I ask you now, each who has been wronged, humiliated, robbed, or scarred by the events at that court: come. Bring your spears, bring your grievances, bring your oaths. Gather at my table beneath the Black Root banner. We will feast, we will swear, and we will send our enemies home with the shame of a thousand winters.

Take care on the road. The mountain pass is held by our old foes — move with caution; travel in bands; trust no one who smiles too sweetly with court-lip. We will mark the safe ways, we will burn false guides who would lead our brothers into traps, and we will take the pass when the time is right.

Before we ride, I will make sacrifice—simple things the gods accept: mead poured, a spear laid on the altar, a rune chanted aloud. I will call to Baldur for light and truth, to Vali for shield and vigilance, to Tyr for the justice of our cause, and to Thor for the thunder-stride we mean to bring upon Lullin. If any here would bring other offerings to bind the gods to our side, do so now; let no superstition go unanswered when the price of failure is a still hearth.

Know this: we do not march for petty raiding. We march to right a wrong, to take back what was stolen — to make the town remember the cost of trampling on those who stand with honor. We will be fierce, we will be lawful in our vengeance where possible, and we will be merciless where they have been merciless to us.

Join me. Take the black horn. Drink with me. Swear me your blade and I will swear to you: the river that runs through Lullin will be red with the justice we bring. We will make them regret the day they set their hands against the Black Root.

By my name — Thordic Strongfellow, Chieftain of the Black Root — I call you. Answer. Or be counted among those who watched while their kin bled.”