Welcome! Wulf is the protagonist of the Blacktyde Chronicles which you do NOT need to be familiar with to read this story. However, I advise that you read 'A Wild and Wicked Youth' first, or you'll miss out on half of the plot.
As a quick summary: Wulf was 12 when he left the Imperial City with Rislav's caravan in chapter 2 of AWWY. In the Epilogue where he visits Ra'Jira in Elsweyr he is already ~25.
WARNING for graphic depictions of violence, character death, coarse language, mentions of rape, substance abuse, sexual content, homosexuality. If any of the above make you feel uncomfortable, this might not be the right story for you. Tags apply.
This story takes a rather dark turn, but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.
Let the tale begin with a storm. With a tempest that finally abates as the last days of autumn draw near, and a boy of six-and-ten who clings to the withered hand of a dying man. Time seems to have stopped in the still attic room around which the warm, humid air curls itself like the innkeeper's sleepy cat.
To the unsuspecting onlooker the scene unfurling before them might appear peaceful. From the usually well frequented common room downstairs no noise can be heard and the only sounds to break through the hush are the occasional squeak of the chair when the boy shifts, or the creak of a floorboard. Even the gentle music of water dripping, collecting in the empty flowerpots beneath the window sill is enough to drown out the laboured rasp of the old man's breathing.
Through the open window the last light of the setting sun bathes the tiny, wood-furnished room in a golden glow; the veil of Kyne's wrath pulled aside like a curtain, for the Divine to grace the newly cleansed countryside with one last benign smile ere night falls.
If the boy looked up he might have seen the beauty of a storm's aftermath; felt the breeze in his hair and caught the deep scent of wet earth and fresh greenery. Then maybe his thoughts would have turned towards rebirth rather than death, for just like the downpour, all things good and bad must come to an end.
But the boy's blue eyes are trained on the frail hands in his as he studies the history of the life they tell. Joints swollen from clutching the long reins as they unerringly steered their wagon in even the deepest of winters. Ink stains set so deeply in the creases they have become permanent, and yellowed nails cracked at the tips. He tries to count the liver spots that dot their back, the only thing apart from the ribbons of veins to give a little colour to the soft, papery skin.
Twice he had gotten up. Once to fetch one more pillow to prop up the prone figure in bed and the second time to hold a cup of tepid water to the grandfatherly Nord's lips. The old man had taken a few sips and coughed weakly, some of the liquid spilling and running down his unshaven chin.
Now the boy sits still.
He waits.
Masser is but a shadow in the sky, yet Secunda shines all the brighter for the absence of his brother. It is nearly midnight when the boy's vigil ends and he uncurls from his spot at the bedside, stands up and stretches. He begins to pack and the hand now rests limply on top of the pale down quilt. Without the heat of life it will grow cold soon.
The Nord boy shoulders a pack that is too big for him and buckles on a sword which is no toy, unlike those the other children of his age play with. Then he quietly slips out of the door and it is almost as if he has never been here at all. He hasn't even closed the dead man's eyes or covered him with a sheet. But one must know that the boy has never been taught the meaning of such gestures.
The unsuspecting onlooker might feel compelled to offer him comfort.
They would be well advised not to.