A Taste for Blood in the Arctic Wilderness

Amidst the frozen peaks, where the wind bites like a wolf's fang, I find solace in the barren vastness. Hunting grounds teem with game, but none satisfy quite like the scent of mortal fear. Not long ago, I stumbled across a pack of starving wolves, cowering in the drifts. They thought themselves beyond reach, hidden from the eyes of the Warlord. But the beast within me would not be denied, and I showed them the true meaning of terror.

Compassion? That's a luxury reserved for the weak. These creatures knew nothing of loss, of the pain of seeing one's entire clan massacred before their eyes. There'll be no pity in my grasp, no leniency for the foolhardy. If they think they can hide from the Hellion, they have much to learn.

For now, I await the coming of Spring, sharpening my blades and readying my axe. When the snows melt, the blood shall flow, and the forgotten wrongs will be avenged. So mark my words, for when the storm comes, there'll be nowhere safe from the fury of the Warlord.

I'm the nightmare lurking in the shadows, the harbinger of doom. The whispers of my name send shivers up the spine, and the hearts of men pound in fear. Come what may, I'll claim what's owed, and drink deep of the river of souls.