No one knows where Bryn Grey-bear came from. Some say he was a bandit who grew tired of his gang, or perhaps he came from the western reaches of Valhym where civilization never quite reached. Others whisper he was raised by animals in the wilderness, or believe him to be a wrathful god born in the form of a man.

But those who met Bryn and lived to tell about it, know he was no god. He didn't care enough about the world to be a god. No, Bryn was a man—a large bear of a man riddled with scars, a wild mane of dark blonde hair, and shoulders three feet wide.

Before he became known as Bryn Grey-bear throughout Valhym, he was just Bryn the thief. Although the word ‘thief’ didn't fit what he did. He wasn't one of the sly pick-pockets found in Taka. Bryn simply took what he wanted. Wandering through the wilderness, he seemed to show up whenever someone was in trouble. An animal attack, bandits, the occasional angered tree spirit or demon cultist. Bryn would swing his large axe or his greatsword and save the group before demanding payment. The smart ones would give him whatever they had and leave with their lives. The fools would offer him a sum and Bryn would stare down at them with his grey eyes and say, "All of it." If they did not immediately hand it over, Bryn would cut them down as well, and take the treasures from their corpses.

However, the story of Bryn really begins when he turned his eyes towards his first settlement. He showed up in a small town, a giant of a man, and walked into the local inn. The two men drinking there eyed him suspiciously while the waitress squeaked and slipped into the kitchen. The barkeep tried to keep some composure as Bryn walked up and sat down at the bar.

"Three ales." He dropped some coins on the counter and, now comfortably back into his business rhythm, the barkeep quickly fetched Bryn's drinks. The man downed the first two without ceremony and then held the third, staring into it with a thoughtful look on his rough face.

The two townsmen, feeling very threatened by his presence, decided that together they should drive this ruffian away. They took a last drink and swaggered up to Bryn.

"We don't welcome strangers mutch in thesh parts," slurred the more drunk of the two. The more sober and slightly more intelligent one added, "So finish your drink and be on your way."

There was a low rumble like a growl, and the drunkards looked at each other. Bryn's huge shoulders, covered in the fur of a bear, shook. He was laughing. Then, faster than anyone expected such a large man to move, Bryn whipped down his greatsword with one large hand and beheaded the two men. As their heads rolled on the floor and their bodies fell, there was a crash as the barkeep dropped the glass he had been cleaning. The waitress peeked out to see what the noise was and, at the sight of the bodies, screamed.

Bryn sighed and drank the third ale. He eyed the large coin purse on the innkeeper’s belt and shrugged. "Town didn't have a river anyway."

He stood up and walked around the bar. The barkeep began babbling for mercy but stopped when his body joined the others. The waitress was next. Then the men who met him outside, then the mayor who attempted to bargain, then the women who pleaded, and then the rest of the inhabitants of the village.

When the carnage was over, Bryn licked the blood from his knuckle where a man's dull blade had broken the skin, walked from house to house, examining the contents and picking items and coins from them.

“More in a village than a caravan”, he thought.

He stepped over the bodies of the servants as he walked through the mayor's home, pausing at a painting of Valhym's countryside. On the top of a grey hill, splotched with purple heather, was a stone castle. Bryn wasn't so uneducated as to think that was the king's castle. It was a Jarl's fort.

“It'd be good to have a roof to stay under. I have grown too strong to stay in the wilderness,” he muttered into the empty room.

Bryn had conquered the dangers of nature. He had heard the stories of politics and the battling of men. Hearing the ways they used threats and words above weapons and fists, made Bryn laugh. Finding himself the strongest in the wild, he decided to test himself in the world of men. To take until he was satisfied.

So begin Bryn's days as Bryn the village razer.

Towns and villages began to hear rumors of a man appearing out of nowhere to slaughter and loot a village. Many scoffed saying it must be a team of bandits or Brimstones. Others were convinced it was merely plague that wiped these small settlements off the map. Nevertheless, many villages packed up and returned to the cities, scared to lose the precious little they had. Others were too well rooted and were not eager to return under the strict rules of the Jarls.

Two things ended Bryn's tirade. One, he found a place he was satisfied with, second he found his woman.

Bryn was by a river, tending his wounds. The last village had hired mercenaries to protect them, bankrupting themselves in an attempt to save their livelihood—an irony that didn't escape Bryn as he cut them all down. One mercenary had been more skilled than the rest and managed to cut deeply into Bryn's side before Bryn's axe cracked open his head like a melon. Bryn's wound should have been lethal but, as he sat by the river, he reached down and with a glowing hand, healed the wound.

Not many in these parts used magic, being superstitious. There were a handful of mages in Snaerheim the southern point of Valhym. Bryn's, albeit small, grasp on the arcane gave him yet another advantage over his enemies. Where he learned the arts was another mystery, although it was generally accepted that it had begun with the wilder magics of nature, secrets torn from sprites and fae. Perhaps he gathered books of spells through his village raids.

Another theory had more evidence to it, that Bryn may have once been a prisoner to the stray demonic cults that speckled Valhym. Though no one ever dared mention this aloud to Bryn, he did seem to have a particular hatred for the Brimstones. So, when his keen eyes spotted a black robed figure through the pines, they narrowed and his grip on his axe tightened.

Like a stalking wolf, Bryn followed the figure, his grey and brown clothes blending in the surroundings. The Brimstone arrived at a cave, the entrance marked by the skulls of animals and humans alike. Having seen enough, Bryn removed a small axe from his belt and threw it, striking the cultist in the back of the head. He—or she as Bryn discovered—crumpled to the floor without a sound. Bryn left the body and stalked into the cave.

The sound of low chanting filled the stone tunnels. The hair on the back of Bryn's neck rose and he began muttering protective spells, the air around him shimmered as wards raised. Mages were tricky. One on one, it was a matter of magical might, but with a group, the element of surprise was key. Bryn would strike before they could raise their wards and make his strength useless.

The tunnel ended in a large cavern. There was the dripping sound of water and the air smelled of mold, blood, and smoke. Five robed figures stood in a circle, red candles burning between them. In the center was a large statue of one of the Accursed Ones, Bryn never learned their names, and at its feet an altar with a woman lying on it, a black cloth covering her naked form. Bryn could see her twitching, she was shackled down her mouth gaping in screams silenced by magic.

Bryn readied an axe in one hand while the other held churning purple energy. He released both. The bolt struck down the chanter farthest away and the axe took mage who seemed to be the leader, his robe having more red embroidery than the others. Instantly, the remaining three pulled up wards. But one started with a ward against magic first, having been too blinded by the purple light to see the axe. Bryn's next thrown axe took him quickly.

With a roar, Bryn lept from the top of the stone stair down to the circle. He grunted as a purple bolt struck his side and his ward shimmered fragile from the blow. His axe broke through the next Brimstone’s ward and he followed with another blow before he could conjure another. Bryn heard the crackle as one of the remaining two summoned a form of fire. Bryn simply barreled towards it, kicking the mages legs out from under him in the process. His axe buried itself in the fiery body and flames scorched Bryn’s face and arms, but axe cut through to the fiery beast's master who lay on the floor watching his death burst flaming towards him.

The last mage tried to run, turning invisible, but his splashing in the puddles revealed his location. Bryn sent lightning to the rippling water and the man convulsed, becoming visible and twitching on the floor. Bryn stepped over and crushed his neck with his foot.

There was a small gasp as the spell silencing the woman broke. Bryn began to climb the stairs out.

"Please help me, I'll do anything."

He turned to the woman. A few strands of blonde hair were stuck to her lips from thrashing about. Her bright green eyes sparkled with tears that she held in. That was what caught Bryn's eye. His heavy steps echoed in the cavern as he moved back towards her. He ripped the black cloth off, her pale beautiful body shivering in the cool cavern air. Her ankles and wrists were shackled to the stone table.

"What could you offer me that I couldn't take?" Bryn ripped the shackles from the stone and she quickly sat up, lifting her knees close to her chest and pulled a corner of the black cloth, bringing it up around her shivering shoulders.

Her piercing green eyes met Bryn's grey and then fell to the floor. "I could stay with you and be yours."

Bryn considered this. She was beautiful and could think on her feet as it were. After a pause he said, "Would I want that?"

The woman dropped the black cloth and lowered her knees. "Let's find out."

Her lips were blue with cold and Bryn reached for her, noting that she didn't flinch. He put one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, lifting her as easily as a child. His fur cloak draped over her shoulder as he carried her silently out of the cavern. By the time they reached the grassy patch by the river where he had left his pack, she had stopped shivering and her lips had returned to a rosy red.

He knelt on the ground and leaned over, her back coming to a rest on the soft grass. Her hand went from his chest to his face and she pulled him closer, her lips touching his. There on the grass, Bryn made love for the first time with Dyla, his woman. When they had finished, Dyla curled close and whispered in his ear, "My lord, what is your name?"

Bryn grunted, "Bryn."

"I am Dyla."

Bryn gently pushed her away and sat up. He reached for his pack and removed a blue blanket. He tossed it at Dyla, who draped it around herself. She stood awkwardly, uncertain whether to get closer or walk away. Bryn retrieved his weapons from where they had been tossed aside, shouldered his pack, and said, "You'll need shoes."

Dyla smiled and stepped closer. Bryn began to walk and Dyla walked behind him.

As Bryn predicted, her feet were bleeding from the sharp grey stones by the time they reached civilization. Dyla had kept walking despite the pain, guessing rightly that this was a test. She followed Bryn as close as she could, never complaining, but noticed that he never walked faster than it was possible for her to follow. When they finally approached civilization, a large town with a Jarl's fort rising from one side, Bryn turned. "Stay here." he ordered and then left her.

He returned with a pair of soft but sturdy boots and a warm woolen green dress. Gratefully, Dyla slipped it on but when she reached for the boots, Bryn stopped her. He reached for her ankle and lifted her foot. While he'd been gone, she'd ripped the blanket and wrapped her feet to stop the bleeding.

Slowly, Bryn unwound the cloth and she couldn't help but flinch as it tore away the newly formed scabs . Blood oozed down her heel until he placed a glowing hand against it, replacing the torn skin with smooth and whole. He gestured for the other and Dyla quickly placed it in his hand so he could repeat the process. Finished, he tossed some balled socks to her which she put on and then shoved her feet into the new boots. She stood and tested them, bouncing from one foot to the other. They fit well.

Bryn looked at her approvingly and nodded. Dyla was about to thank him, but his nod stopped her. She felt the implications of their relationship. These were not gifts to please her, they were bare necessities required by nature, this was Bryn setting his house in order. Because she was his, he took care of her. He had decided and it felt as final as any marriage ceremony.

So Dyla did not thank him, because a wife did not need to thank her husband for putting clothes on her back. She would stay by his side as she promised. She would follow this large, wild man who had saved her life and soul.

Dyla reached down for the remains of the blue blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. There was still a chill breeze. Bryn awkwardly reached into his pocket and removed a small metal object. He stepped forward, pulling the blanket from her hands. He rearranged it on her shoulders and maneuvered the object. It was a pin in the shape of a grizzly bear, he used to fasten the blanket into a cloak. Then he backed away and looked her up and down approvingly.

This was a gift. "Thank you, my lord," she said bowing her head.

He nodded quickly and turned. "Let's go. I do not like this one, there is no river."