To fight. To see. To die. Honour is more than a feature of Dinavi society it is the central pillar, it is the mast which guides the ship of their being, it is the runestone that bears their existence. To take Dinavi life would not bring them shame. To burn their homes would not bring them shame. To desecrate their altars to the gods would not bring them shame. It would bring only a call of retribution. It would ignite their torches, brandish their weapons and stand guard on their bulwarks proud and defiant. Wolfstrøm is one such man. As son to a chief of Bersun, he had proved himself beyond doubt in youth. In the ritual of strength, many kill wolves. Quick and lean, yet small, they pose a danger. Wolfstrøm was not hunting a wolf. Few, hunt wargs. Larger and vicious yet slower, their danger is evident to all. Wolfstrøm was not hunting a warg. The creature that stood in front of him was truly monstrous. It's size dwarfed wargs, its keen senses put wolves to shame, and its coat blended it with the snow-topped mountainside of the challenge. This one, however, did not stalk and attack from hidden spots as many of its ilk do, it waited for Wolfstrøm - aware of what was to happen. 

Winterwolves stand broadly at dominating an area of 9ft across from shoulder to shoulder. A glistening frost emanates from their coat, two pure blue eyes with small beads of black glare motionless as they hunt prey. Wolfstrøm was not prey and the beast knew so. As he charges the she-wolfs maw opened a breath of frost torrented out past the teeth of near-perfect white. His left shoulder bore the brunt causing skin to freeze and crack. Axe thrown and imbedded into the spine of her neck they charged each other. Teeth met steel and fist met claw. As combat raged a moment of silence spanned between them. Both bleeding, both with broken bones. It was the moment. Storms had been creeping their way up the hillsides and his muscles twitched with lightning. Another charge met. This, however, ended without stalemate. The axe was raised as they grappled tearing through pelt and flesh. as light flooded in a burst of speed caused his hand to sharply break through the underside of its jawbone. Hand embedded, axe in hand another pull was made. The open chasms blood froze as it hit the stone. A warmth was felt on Wolfstrøms back. As warmth shifted to heat he saw the smoke.

Still brutalised he descended the mountain. Blood from his brow was an inconvenience as he barrelled through trees and brush. His clan was ablaze. Its fire pierced the descended fogs that the storm had brought. Echoing calls wailed against the ruinous clamour of flame. He grew desperate as he felt bone click in his arm. Pain shot through him. Trees burdened his path. When in truth they were attempting to shield him. As he attempted to cut through the brambles he was forced onto the road. The road he ran through as a child the gates then were shut, now they were aflame. "Long way young one" his memory called "gate shuts at sundown". The small break in palisade he climbed through with young feet he broke through. It lead to the feast hall kitchens, in the same way, it did when with friends he stole ales and meats as a boy. As a young man, he also kept his eyes vigilant for cooks and others. Unlike then he called out to them, called out for anyone. Running through the hall he saw the roof had was filled with smoke as it had done with countless feasts all funnelling through a hole - but now the hole encompassed much of the roof as beams had broken and collapsed the tables. Bodies were strewn across the room then too, they too were motionless but now they laid burned. Next was the courtyard.

The courtyards main flame only was set in celebration and was contained within great plinths of stone - now the inferno spread savagely to neighbouring buildings. "WOLFSTRØM" the voice called " GET BACK FROM THE FLAME " the voice dissipated as the memory of his father scolding his childhood curiosity faded. "You coming friend" this memory was of Sigfastr " can't call yourself a Dinavi if you don't sail with us up to the Empire. We're in need of a good fight." Docks. As Wolfstrøm arrived they those who had made it to ships, had died as they too burned and sunk. The buckling wood gave and he fell below the water.

"They're gone chief-son" rasp and forced the whisper came from above his closed eyes. A flail and turn caused Wolfstrøm, along with the seawater clogging his throat, to rise. As it violently spewed forth it drew what blood remained from the internal bleeding caused by either the wolf or the rocks as when he tumbled in the undercurrent. "A chief can protect his people from many things, your father did. The treachery of dragons was not something he could or would have been expected to burden. It is something you must now burden. A chief without a tribe is a dangerous thing. Yet, I hope, it becomes tempered with purpose." the voice did not come from a memory, or from a man. "The Empire holds the answer to this past, and to the future of your tribe. To be a chief you need a tribe. To gain the wisdom you need the answers. The Empire holds many answers." Wolfstrøms eyes darting from tree to tree it became known where the voice originated - it came from a sage. Sages words are rare and should be heeded. A final memory emerged. "A chief listens to three Wolfstrøm. The gods, his people and the words of a sage."