Ragnar Stolen-Voice's page

Ragnar was raised in Trollheim by his father Kolgrim Redthirst- a powerful priest of Gorum. Kolgrim settled in Trollheim for the promise of frequent battle against the town's foes in Irrisen. While Kolgrim was quite powerful, he did not take any sort of organizational hand in the church of the Lord in Iron- his place was on the front lines of any conflict, his sermons delivered at the hacking edge of his greatsword.
Unfortunately for his son, that was also his philosophy toward fatherhood.

Ragnar never knew his mother; upon reflection, it would be easy enough to imagine that he had been adopted by his father, had there not been a clear resemblance between the two of them. From a young age, he lived ever in his father's shadow- while other boys were learning to hunt and fish, playing with wooden swords and roughhousing, he was reciting the Iron Lord's hymns and being punished for missing a word or lacking fervor, cleaning the blood and grime from his father's arms and armor and carrying out other tasks to "make a man of him". Kolgrim wouldn't be satisfied unless his son grew up to be the mightiest of Gorum's followers, a warrior-priest fit to paint the snows of Irrisen red. A favorite lesson of the great priest was to take up a notched old sword and attack his son with it, forcing the boy to defend himself. Even if he wasn't using his full strength, Kolgrim would often leave Ragnar with gashes and bruises- some even harsh enough to require the use of healing magic. Ragnar learned quickly that hiding behind a shield was the best method of curbing his father's aggressions during these "lessons" and through painful trial and error, he learned the best basic sword and shield techniques. His father kept baiting him, hoping to "stoke the fire in him" and draw out the rage Ulfen warriors are so known for; but his son never threw himself into it, always remaining in control and on the defensive.

In what time Ragnar had to himself, he would carve wooden animals and monsters with a small knife. He enjoyed working with his hands, though he feared his father ever finding his handiwork. So Ragnar left his finished pieces in spots around the village, away from the hall he shared with his father, for the other children to find.

One day when Ragnar was fifteen, his father discovered him carving an elk from a piece of birch. While the boy expected to be punished, he didn't expect the fury Kolgrim vented on him.

"Your only craft is war!", Kolgrim roared, as he grabbed his son and sent him hurtling toward a weapon rack. "If you're tough enough to waste your time with this", he said, crushing the elk beneath an iron boot,"then you can handle some real steel!" Kolgrim pulled out his own sword, a black iron beast of a greatsword and leapt for his son. Ragnar had only a split second to get his battered shield into position before his father started hacking at him with all his might. Blow after blow rained down on him and Ragnar could not possibly contend with his father's full force. The greatsword sheared through his shield and into Ragnar's chest. Gasping and bleeding, he fell to the floor, his body growing cold as his life left him.

Ragnar remembers death only briefly- a long line of people of all description, young and old alike. A great spire. A grey woman on a throne. It was an eternity that passed in the blink of an eye before an iron fist gripped the back of his shirt and yanked him back to the world.

He gasped with pain, but no sound buy his breathing escaped his ruined throat. Ragnar jolted, his father above him with a hand pressed to his chest. He was on the altar to Gorum in the church.
"Get up.", Kolgrim said,"And don't let me catch you wasting your time like that again."
Ragnar tried to say something, but found that he could no longer speak. Raising a hand to his throat, he found a puckered line of scar tissue... the funny thing is, his father's sword had caught him across the chest.

Still weak from his return, Ragnar rose when he was certain that his father was soundly sleeping and packed up his belongings. Clothes, food, a short sword, a shield. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold northern night, never looking back.

It was a long trek for the lad to reach Karlsgard Or a closer setlement- I haven't got the Land of the Linnorm Kings book with me, so I haven't had a chance to look up where everything would be. on his own. He stumbled through the city, mute and lost, never having seen so many people in one place before. Ragnar scraped by for a time, sheltering in alleys or on floors, doing odd jobs for tradesmen that took pity on him. Each person that gave him a job, he left a small carving- a token of his gratitude. Eating a meal on an ale hall step, he saw a notice- "THE GRIFFON'S CLAW SEEKS NEW RECRUITS, INQUIRE WITH OLAF AT THE RUSTY BUCKET". A mercenary company. Ragnar didn't like the idea of returning to a life so close to his father's... but what skills did he have? Carving toys for children? Moving sacks of flour or ingots of iron? On reflection, the only thing he really knew anything about was fighting. He gathered up his things, tore down the notice and found the Rusty Bucket.

"I don't know kid, you're awful young.", the one-eyed mercenary said,"You could get killed pretty easy the work we do. Don't you have a family?"
Ragnar nodded, scribbled on a piece of butcher paper- "I can handle it. Let me prove myself."
Olaf exchanged a glance with Snorri, the dwarf sitting next to him. The dwarf shrugged and stood up, swinging a dagger at Ragnar from under his cloak. The Stolen-Voice deflected the knife with his wooden shield, pulling out his short sword. Compared to Kolgrim, the dwarf's testing blows were downright civilized, like he was waiting for permission before each thrust. Ragnar kept up as the attacks came faster, moving around the dwarf and keeping from being hemmed in. The other patrons started clapping, laughing at the display. The dwarf slid under Ragnar's guard and slammed a fist into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Ragnar smacked the dwarf with his shield.
"Hah!", Snorri barked,"The mute's got talent!"
Olaf nodded, though he wasn't as amused as Snorri.
"I still don't like taking on someone that young... but if it's what you're set on, lad, then welcome aboard."

For the next few years, Ragnar was a junior member (a nice way of saying "henchman") of the The Griffon's Claw company. There were five principal members- Snorri, a dwarven warrior with some underhanded methods, Bronwen, a half-elven scout that Ragnar nursed something of a crush for; Olaf, the grizzled ranger, Anya, a changeling woman with long nails and terrifying magic and finally Landon, a halfling and a priest of Erastil. It was Landon that became Ragnar's closest friend over the time of his employment. The halfling had a friendly attitude and a paternal interest in the young runaway and taught him the tenets of Old Deadeye. Though his talents did not lie in matters of faith (what with his ruined throat), Ragnar became an ardent follower of Erastil. His time with the Claw helped Ragnar overcome his rotten childhood and find a place in the world where he belonged; he didn't get a chance to see too much action, but he learned a lot from watching the others and on the occasions where a rampaging monster or foe would break through the group's defenses, when it was up to the young fighter to stand between the vulnerable casters and the threat. Landon eventually figured out some small way to mend Ragnar's severed vocal chords- he still can't speak well, but it's easier to make himself understood.

It was on a cold night several weeks later in Ragnar's eighteenth year that the Griffon's Claw came apart. Crossing Hagreach, Anya simply disappeared. The changeling was never the most reliable member, but it was strange for her to just vanish. Olaf picked up her trail and the group followed into a cave. By the light a cauldron's fire, they found Anya and a coven of hags. Their former comrade turned on the party, hurling hexes and spells. After a pitched battle, Snorri and Olaf, as well as Anya, lay dead. Landon and Bronwen didn't have the heart left to continue after that. After burying their fallen friends, Bronwen bade farewell to Landon and Ragnar, striking out south. Landon ultimately settled on finding a new home for himself, where he could start a family and help the community. While Ragnar felt more than tempted to accompany his friend/surrogate father to accomplish that, he knew that Trollheim wasn't far away. And there was someone he had to see.

He found the town much as he had left it; an armed camp with little cheer or welcome. He spent an evening at the ale hall, listening for news of recent events before walking with heavy steps to confront Kolgrim... only to be surprised by a new priest in Gorum's chapel. Kolgrim, it turned out, went missing during a skirmish with ice trolls miles east of Trollheim and hadn't been seen in years. Dumbstruck, disappointed and, yes, a bit relieved, Ragnar settled back into his old home, finding ready work for his shield arm but still gnawed by his old wounds.