Kheribus: First Captain of the Guard

(another character synopis)

It is said that a Woten Tribe can no more disavow a Woten Wolf, than a Woten Wolf can disavow his tribe. Yet, as widespread as the Woten Clans are, few know how true that is for few truly know the ways of these most Spartan of peoples. And more often than not, those who dare to try to understand them by venturing into their realms never return. Such is the way of these secluded and mysterious wolves.

For the Wotens, the tribe is blood, and blood, the tribe. Magnificent warriors, feared raiders, dreaded night stalkers, a Woten’s sense of the hunt is uncanny, their remorsefulness legendary, their courage unequalled. Their goddess is the moon, the night their cloak, and darkness the promise of ever-life. And should a Woten fall in battle, the tribe will not leave them behind- they will all die trying to bring back the dead, whatever the cost, whatever the pain, for the bond between being and tribe, and tribe and mountain, is beyond formidable, it simply—is.

So when one does come down from the mountains, and mingles with those not of his people, it is a matter of note: and when one comes down from the mountain and becomes the First Captain of the Guard of Falkenhaven, it is a matter of stunned astonishment- and to some, dreaded shock.

And so it is with Kheribus, the ascetic master soldier of the Margrave, the out-of-the-ordinary bearer of the crest of Falkenhaven’s Captain of the Guard. Just who he is, which tribe he came from, and why he is here- or more to the point, what caused him to leave ‘the blood,’ is a mystery that the inhabitants of this old and decaying fortress town only ever whisper quietly in wonderment among themselves.

Ever the arm of the tax levy, his heritage as a Woten brings more dread than his reputation as one of finest weapon masters in all of the cold North. Yet, he is hardly aloof, or remote from his charge; boldly walking the streets of the city that is his to protect. Atop his scaly strider, or questioning a merchant suspected of shorting his tax arrears, Kheribus is an ever present part of the bustle of the town, a symbol of the Margrave’s governance as much as the Margrave’s castle is. And every now and then, a rumor circulates that the wolf has righted some wrong, made fair some cheat, and looked the other way when some poor citizen has come to City Prison because dire need has spawned desperate theft.

For Kheribus, his motivations, desires, hopes, are matters never discussed. A loner by nature, to even those that know him he remains remote and distant, confiding perhaps only in the Margrave and rarely ever if that. Only the horse captain, Warwick, elicits a strong reaction from him, an antagonism born of mutual distrust, made palpable by shared derision, close to bordering on hate, and restrained only by the fact that Warwick is an equal in arms.

An enigma then, this Wolf is, and so he will probably always remain. But for many years now, he has been the master of their guard, an ever-present figure, and the town has come to think of him as one of their own, and has often shared a laugh at the alarmed ogling of newcomers when seeing their Woten Wolf Captain for the first time.

Yet, none are ever truly at ease around Kheribus, for there remains something in his manner, something—unsettling. Perhaps it is a sense of deferred vengeance, or the latent wildness lying dormant in the depths of his coal black eyes. Whatever it is, it keeps the good citizens of Falkenhaven from ever truly trusting this wolf—and always wondering whenever they catch a glimpse of him standing atop the margrave’s tower, peering out under a glimmering moonrise into the fading twilight of the day, staring long and ardently at the distant snow covered mountains from which he once came.