I was born in a village near the ruins of the once-great Dúnedain city Fornost. My father, Brigan son of Borgon, was one of the last descendents of the Dúnedain, while my mother was a Bree-lander, Tarin daughter of Neil. My life back then, as it should be for every child, was carefree. I spent my days either helping my mother look after my baby brothers (Lugh and Jorrick), or learning survival techniques such as hunting and fighting from my father. My father worked as a trapper and dog-breeder, while my mother helped as a midwife in the village.
My family was in no way rich, no-one in our village was. In spite of this, we were able to make enough money off of the passing merchants to keep food on the table. The leader of our village was Hogun the FirmFisted. He earned this name for tight control of taxes he took from the people. My father hated Hogun with a passion, but was unable to challenge due Hogun's refusal to speak to the people, he made his will known through his advisers and servants.
It was mid fall. The early morning air was crisp, and for the first time at age 13, my father was allowing me to hunt by myself. I was currently stalking a deer, a young buck by the shape and size of his tracks, and I was determined to bring it home. I was about four miles away from the village when I finally got close to the buck, at was about to let loose an arrow, when this horrid smell wafted from the east. I knew this smell, for it was one that my father had always taught me to beware of, for it was the scent of Orcs. The deer, also recognizing the stench, fled further into the woods.
For a minute I just stayed where I was, crouched in the thicket with my bow drawn. Then I heard the bugle. "No"! I thought, for that was the village horn that was only blown if there was danger approaching the village. Without a moment more, I ran as fast as possible back towards home. I cut through hunting paths, roads, and trails that I was forced to blaze, anything that would allow me to reach my family faster! What I did did not matter, for by the time I reached the village, my world had become a blazing inferno of fire, blood, Orc stench, and the screams of the dying.
The sight of an Orc making his way down the street not far from me shook me out of my daze. Keeping low in the brush, I made my way around the outside of what once was my village, to where my family's house should be. It was all in vain, for like the rest of the village, my home was burning. I couldn't see anyone, but as a moved closure, I tripped. When I looked to see what I tripped over, my horror was so terrible that I could not even scream, for what had caused me to fall was the mutilated body of my father.
I do not know how long I sat there, prone, besides the body of my father. I did not look for my mother or brothers, for I feared that they too, were dead. I sat beside the rotting corpse of what had once been my father for what could have been days, or only hours. Eventually, a group of Northern rangers (other descendents of the Dúnedain) came across me, and after prying me away from my father, took me in. Having no living family, I stayed with this particular band of rangers, training with them, eating with them, and hunting with them, until I earned the right to be called Ranger myself. This is how my story began, read further if you wish to continue the tale of the She-Wolf of the North.