Who am I? The dark tyrant, the heartless one, lightslayer I am all this and more, but it was not always so.
Let me take you back to before my birth.My father, a Nordic chieftain, had put his life of marauding up the Irish coast with his Viking clan behind him and had settled into a calm life with an Irish commoner. I was brought unto this world in the month of February, during a harsh winter, very little survived that cold winter, beyond the odds, baby Blackmane survived.
As the years passed by I was taught the ways of farming, and learned the glorious histories of my father and the pagan teachings of my mother. Until the night that life ended. It was just after sunset on a chilly spring evening, a Viking longboat pushed ashore down the beach from my village, as my family and our village sat around our fires telling stories of better days, the northern invaders descended upon the village. I sat stunned as I watched the first of these barrel-chested men drop a huge axe through the collar of the boy sitting next to me, scrambling back, I found myself under the arm of my father as he hefted a large sword he had stripped from a Viking he had crushed with his bare hands, I was tossed around, being pulled from harms way as my father battled his way to my mothers side, but as it seemed we would both be in the protection of my fathers blade, an arrow from the shadows cut into my fathers throat. Dropping me he collapsed to the ground gasping for breath, looking to my mother I watched as another warrior grabbed her and began dragging her into the shadows, her last words as she faded from my site was "Run..live." Blind with fury and terror I ran, I ran for what seemed days, across the countryside and deep into a forest. This forest I would call home for many years.
As the pain of my loss passed I was forced to focus on survival, I learned to survive in the forest by watching the native animals, becoming in time like an animal myself. Each creature taught me a lesson, cunning from the fox, speed from the birds, silence from the serpent, and the hunt from the wolf. I spent many months each season following around a pack of wolves led by a large black male. In my years in the woods no other wolf challenged this massive wolf of the night, he became a distant friend, and mentor, I learned how he cared for his pack, and how in turn the pack cared for each other.
As time passed and I grew older I longed for a pack of my own, but a wild man who lived in the woods was not welcome by the superstitious and wary natives. So I searched, look on the outskirts for those who did not have families for those running from something or someone, and I met the first of my "pack". A brigand adorned in the scraps of leather and weathered cloth of a highwayman, he called himself the Buzzard. So it became, that I would start my pack, my clan, and I would name it after the stoic figure in my memories, the black wolf, the Nightwolf.
As our journeys carried us across the expanse of the Emerald Isles, others came to join my Clan, some who were thought unsavory by others and some who were strangers to this land and viewed as "strange", but all found a common uniting force in the Nightwolf clan.