For the last four years I have fought and trained in the arena and with my men on the snow covered hills of Rathtyen. For those four years after I came of age, I brought my family's name honor and strength in the Continent of Galthran, as well as our home of Rathtyen.
Unfortunately for myself and my men, my father, Morthar, eighth lord of Rathtyen sent us into the Waelfenden to seek out our werewolf adversaries and put an end to them once and for all. I had my men spread out in a loose skirmish formation and headed deep into the forest. The air was far colder than out on the straits and darkness slowly began to close in on us. I heard a foul voice on the still air chanting a language I did not know. I lost my men in the dark and I stumbled out of the forest with blood on my cloak and a broken blade in my hand. In my shock I wandered the perimeter of the woods for two days before a patrol picked me up. A day later I was prosecuted and put on a stand before my grandfather for him to bear judgement on me.
Our people, and my father, thought that I had murdered my soldiers and that I deserved to die. My twin brother Samandriel and mother Genevieve begged Gaile, my grandfather, to drop the charges and talk sense into Morhtar. He did not drop the charges, but instead had me stripped of my rank and title and asked me to leave Rathtyen until my brother was placed on the throne. Which will be many years still. My father was furious with Gaile and called him a false seer and an arcane trickster who claimed to speak with the gods for guidance and judgement. It was the gods who told him not to have me executed. I stole away the next night and hopped aboard the first ship headed for a distant continent.
On that first continent that I stepped foot on, I found myself in conflict with warlocks and they cast a spell that transported me to your strange realm. By chance, I heard whispers of a Lord Lipman who was in search of fighters to partake in a dispute.