Azkott
Villager
About you
1) What is your Minecraft username?
azkott
2) How old are you?
15.
3) Where are you?
Texas, USA.
4) Have you read our guides yet?
Yes, indeed I have.
5) Introduce yourself! (Minimum 5 sentences please!)
Well, I enjoy many pastimes, usually involving going out, such as hunting, fishing, etc. Gaming is a major enjoyment of mine, and specifically I find the prospect of role=playing quite fore filling, being able to be who you want to be, and live that life. Other than that, many outside would call me a nice guy with a stubborn, help-everyone attitude, with a bit of curiosity, which might not be the greatest of habits, but really helps me learn secrets. Anyways, I’ve rp’d on a number of servers before, and after hearing of Hollow world and all its fame, I decided to try it out (that is, if the community would have me, and accept my application.).
6) Got any examples of your work?
Depending on what you mean by work, I dabble in writing and literature, sometimes composing short stories for the sheer fun of it. As for building in Minecraft, I dabble. Maybe im not the greatest, but I’ve got some classy skills, and supposedly an eye for interior. Anyways, here is an example of a short, written story of mine. It’s not one of my best, but I hoped it would be fine in your eyes.
Many years ago, when the earth was young, darkness ruled over the land. It covered the blue sky, choked plants and animals alike, and spelled doom to all. Humanity was sparse, for the ruling powers of old belonged to Evil beings; such as the Orcs and the Goblins. These enslaved humanity, and, all in all, attempted to wipe them out. But humanity was safe, for they hid deep within the great-halls of the dwarves. And it was there they gathered their strength. Many years later there would be a mighty uprising, in which evil was defeated, the Goblins and Orcs dethroned and cast down, and in which humanity and Dwarven-kind alike would live in peace, for hundreds of years onward. And among the great heroes of that era, the heroes that would forever be remembered in the Legends and Sagas were the Northmen. Their great strength, skill, and cunning carved a path through the northern lands, and won them back the home that only the oldest of tales told of. When, finally, the northmen helped secure the whole realm shoulder to shoulder with human and dwarf alike, they returned to their lost homeland. Nothing of the culture that had once reigned so many years ago remained. But the northerners weren’t the kind that sit down and grieve; it was time to rebuild. They build long-halls, warm and sturdy, built and meant to last. And around them, great cities rose. And from them, villages spread around the countryside. And all was peaceful.
But the greatest of these halls belonged to that of the Jarl, a handpicked warrior of Prowess, intelligence, skill, and cunning who had been chosen by the king, and favored by all his people. These warrior-Kings were unbeatable in combat; and so it was only logical for them to have the greatest of the greatest guard. These were the Huscarls (housecarls); Warriors whose prowess in combat was only surpassed by that of the Jarl. And among these hand-picked guards was the ancestor of Thorvaldr Wolf-Kin: Sigmund the Far-Seer; A wise man. And he was descended directly from the very warriors that had marched to reclaim the north, all those years ago. For their valiant service and that of their ancestors, each Huscarl received a weapon-gift, each hand-made and of immense value. To Sigmund, He gave the Bearded axe Kaldr Bita, the one that Thorvaldr wields today. This became the family weapon, and was handed down, generation to generation, until it reached Thorvaldr, in a quite unceremonious way indeed; for it was gifted to him by his dying father, and wielded in battle only seconds later. Many generations before this sad happening, there were several warriors that were worth of note. Hakon blood-axe mowed down Orcs and Goblins Alike during the great battle of the frozen fields, in which he charged the Enemy line with a mocking laugh, and a great roar. He destroyed the shield wall with his mighty axe; and when the enemy line broke, the Norse men poured in through the gap; that day the victory went to the north. Another great hero that would lead to the descendance of Thorvaldr was Bjorn the loud. His name is quite adequate, for During the battle under the mountain, when the goblins over ran the Dwarven halls and the dwarves called on The northmen for aid, He charged into the fray, side-by-side with his fellow Huscarls, right after the Jarl. But they all stopped in confusion; everyone, except Bjorn. For what they saw before them boggled the mind; A shield wall of Goblins. And as much as this was unsettling for them, it was unusual to the goblins, for they weren’t used to these disciplined tactics. An Orc commander had been placed among them; and so they had great troubles carrying out his disciplined commands. Bjorn charged directly toward the foe; and what was surely to be his death ended in a great victory. For as he ran, He uttered a deep, loud roar, that almost seemed to emanate from his very soul. The Battle-cry shook the hall, and nearly brought it down. The goblins became so frightened that the line broke right before Bjorn charged in before their midst. The ensuing confusion ended in a Norse victory, and the reclaiming of the dwarves’ great halls. And finally, we come to Thorvaldr’s father, whom served with the Huscarls for many years, faithfully and loyally. He was married to Agatha Honey-tongue, a woman with a voice so sweet that it supposedly ran like molten gold, or so Sigvar liked to say. Thorvaldr was born the first of three sons and one daughter, and would grow up to be much like his father; Tall, strong, but most important of all honorable. The story of How Sigvar perished and passed on his axe to his eldest son Thorvaldr comes in a further tale, in case you’re interested.
Thorvaldr was torn, when his father died. So much so, that he got up, packed up his gear, and set off. He would have many adventures before returning to his homeland of the north, and when he did he was greeted warmly by a kind group of Northmen, and he was taken in like a brother. And for once in a long time, Thorvaldr was at peace, and truly felt like he belonged somewhere once more.
This is a short, written history of a character I made up for another server a long time ago. In the process, I wrote a bit extra lore for said server. It starts from the beginning, to the current age of his family line. Not my best work, but you know.
About your character
Name: Jon Wulfe
Age: 23
Race: Human
Appearance: A tall, visibly strong man well built in most aspects. His blonde hair is neatly-combed, his beard elegantly-trimmed. His eyes are an almost icy blue, which, despite said colour description, seem to irradiate more kindness and warmth than a cold, evil glare. To further add to it, his smile seems kind, his smirk almost playful, If not slightly devilish. Upon first glance, this does not seem to make much sense; for, as said, before you stand a man that looks capable of killing. It doesn’t help that he’s clad in plate, but, it just goes to show you never to judge a book by its cover.
The test
The woman stood, cowering in fear from what was before her.
For before her stood 4 bandits, adorned in masks of awful demons from times long gone, clad in rusty mail, and to go with it their rusty blades. They advanced ever so slowly, as if taking advantage of the fact she was near defenseless, and weak. Under their masks they were grinning widely, seeing their next Victim with almost hungry eyes, the same way a wolf eyes a sheep.
The woman fumbled with the only weapon she had bothered to carry for so long; a small, one-handed crossbow. Her shaky, nervous hands were not much help, and when combined with the rushing thoughts and obvious fear of what these bandits would do to her, she dropped her only chance of survival; the bolt she was loading. She sighed deeply, within herself, knowing this would have never happened had she listened to her father. She was annoyed that she had been so weak, too weak in fact to save herself. Even so, she was a stubborn woman, and knelt to pick up the bolt.
The nearest bandit took advantage of her position, charging in a wild frenzy, sword held up high in a position no doubt to strike her down with the pommel of his rusty blade. Even so, she twitchingly loaded her crossbow, bringing it back so as to lock the mechanism in place, so slowly, so vulnerably….
And yet, it seemed as if the bandit never reached her.
She looked up, to find the bandit stopped in his tracks, holding his throat.
His companions were as confused as she was; they believed she had managed to load the crossbow, somehow, despite the fact she had never even brought it to bear. When the bandit fell, it was revealed he did indeed have a crossbow bolt stuck in his throat. After the initial shock of it all, the next bandit held aloft his rusty blade, charging. This attempt had nothing to do with capture; He fully intended to kill her. And so she looked up grimly, her crossbow half-loaded, as if expecting her death.
But it never came, again.
The light of the sun was blocked for a moment, and the bandit before her seemed to cower in fear. For a second, she thought it was her. For a second second, she believed the thing, or person, behind her was actually here to kill her as well. On both accounts, she was wrong.
For beside her now stood a large man, clad in mail much finer than the ragged lot before them. His dark blue cloak blew gently in the wind. He stood straight and tall as a lord, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He looked onto his foes, and simply said:
“You botherin’ the lass, friends?”
His head was not clad in a helmet. This made it all the worse for the bandits, as they gazed into his cold, determined eyes.
“N-no Sir… not at all…”
“Cut the “Sir” bullshoite. I’m no knight. I’m a simple man, with obviously some kind of moral code, unlike you rabble.”
At this the leader of the bandits, the one clad in a mask of black, bristled. “Let’s see who’s so high and moighty withou’ An ‘ead!”
At this, he raised a large, rusty mace, and charged. This man was not to be taken lightly; the bandit was larger than his companions, his weapons just slightly finer.
And yet, there stood this man, no knight, with no inclination to help the girl, risking his life.
And he didn’t even seem worried.
He raised the mighty weapon he had in his hands, unseen before by the eyes of the woman, who had spent her time gazing upon his cold, icy blue eyes. It was a warhammer, large in shape; it looked like it could crush any head like a walnut. The back was a fine spike, clearly meant to strike down men in armour. Before she could take the strangely beautiful weapon in, her savior stepped forward, walking in a brisk pace.
The bandit reached him, his shout continuing. But by walking at his pace, the warrior had messed up the bandit’s supposed reach of attack, making his strike much clumsier than intended. In fact, the long haft of it struck his shoulder, glancing off without even a scratch.
Before the bandit could react, the man leaned down, and simply said, in that ominously dark voice:
“My turn.”
The warrior grabbed the haft of his warhammer, bringing it to bear, smashing the brunt of it against the man’s chest, throwing him back.
“Well, get up, I don’t have all day, yah know,” the warrior added sarcastically, with a light smirk, whose humor never reached his icy-blue eyes.
The bandit leader lay there, unmoving, groaning.
The warrior, shaking his head in a dismissive, uncaring gesture, turned to the bandit’s awestruck, confused companions. It didn’t take their facial features to know that they were scared out of their wits. In fact, one went on to believe that this was a sign from the lords above, a punishment for his years of banditry. He cowered in fear more than his companion, who raised his axe in turn, and charged.
The warrior savior stood his ground, his hammer held aloft.
The man covered distance rather quickly, raising his axe over his head for a deadly strike.
He simply stood there, as if ready to die.
But it was clearly not his day to, for he stepped forward, bringing down his massive hammer.
It was a sickening sight; the hammer bashed through the meager parry that came to meet it, crushing anything underneath with a sickening, wet crunch. He kicked the body away, turning to the bandit’s companion, who in turn had drawn his blade, but stood there, knees shaking with fear.
“You, take off your mask.” The mystery warrior called out.
The bandit, in no position to resist, dropped his sword, removing his mask. Under it was the face of nothing but a boy, not even a hair on his face.
“Tell me lad, what be yer name?” The man called out, in a strangely kind manor.
J-J-Jake, m’lord… Jake Svenrirssen. He answered, cowering slightly less pronounced.
“Well Jake, son of Svenrir, do you know what happens to trouble makers around here?” He called out. He could swear, there was a hint of malice in his tone.
“Y-y-yes, m’lord… hanging…” He called in return, gulping. Almost immediately, the boy fell to his knees sobbing. “P-PLEASE! IM SORRY! I WON’T EVER DO IT AGAIN! I SWARE!”
As he stood there, the large warrior sighed, walking over to the boy.
“Go.” He simply said.
“W-wha?” The boy looked up and said puzzled eyes through the glare of tears and fear.
“You ‘eard me. Now go, before I change my mind.” He added. Maybe a bit menacingly, but it was to get a point through.
The boy took no time in waiting as he ran off, without ever turning back at his two companions.
It was at that, that there was a cry of despair.
The warrior Swiveled, to find the woman caught off guard, trying to fight off the bandit leader, who was trying to grapple her into a headlock, in order to put her in a hostage situation.
The grim hero walked towards them in long powerful strides, dropping his hammer near the man as he did. His strides had quickly turned into a sprint, which abruptly stopped as he tackled him with brute strength, pinning him against the ground.
He gave the merciless bandit no mercy, not even a last, witty word.
He simply beat him with an armoured gauntlet, long and even after he was dead. He stood up, kicking the body to one side, looking around. He found the woman, nothing but a teen, sitting near a pile of rocks, cradling herself, crying. The warrior strode up beside her, sitting down next to her.
“You did very brave, against that bandit you know.” He called out, in a mending voice.
“W-what?” She said, sniffling quietly.
“Foightin’ him off like that, near the end. You should be proud of yerself.” He said, adding an encouraging smile at the end, whose sense of warmth now reached his eyes.
“Anyways, let’s get yah home. Wouldn’t want a lass loike yerself gettin’ hurt. Besides, the wilds ‘round ‘ere are a dangerous place to be—“
“What’s your name, Sir?” She asked, slightly timidly but loudly.
“I am Jon, of House Wulfe. But please, call me Jon; I am no knight, m’lady.” He said, with a smirk. “Now, c’mon, let’s get yah home.”
With that the two set off on a relatively short journey to a fairly-sized, plain village, late at night. He dropped the girl off at her home, knocked, and waited patiently by her side as her parents opened the door, wide-eyed, full of joy. But before they could even turn to her saviour, He was gone, strode off to yet another journey in some faraway land. And though many would never know who Jon of House Wulfe truly was, his tale was well-known in the fairly-sized village ever after, known as the wolf warrior, in compliance to his wish to not be known as a knight.
1) What is your Minecraft username?
azkott
2) How old are you?
15.
3) Where are you?
Texas, USA.
4) Have you read our guides yet?
Yes, indeed I have.
5) Introduce yourself! (Minimum 5 sentences please!)
Well, I enjoy many pastimes, usually involving going out, such as hunting, fishing, etc. Gaming is a major enjoyment of mine, and specifically I find the prospect of role=playing quite fore filling, being able to be who you want to be, and live that life. Other than that, many outside would call me a nice guy with a stubborn, help-everyone attitude, with a bit of curiosity, which might not be the greatest of habits, but really helps me learn secrets. Anyways, I’ve rp’d on a number of servers before, and after hearing of Hollow world and all its fame, I decided to try it out (that is, if the community would have me, and accept my application.).
6) Got any examples of your work?
Depending on what you mean by work, I dabble in writing and literature, sometimes composing short stories for the sheer fun of it. As for building in Minecraft, I dabble. Maybe im not the greatest, but I’ve got some classy skills, and supposedly an eye for interior. Anyways, here is an example of a short, written story of mine. It’s not one of my best, but I hoped it would be fine in your eyes.
Many years ago, when the earth was young, darkness ruled over the land. It covered the blue sky, choked plants and animals alike, and spelled doom to all. Humanity was sparse, for the ruling powers of old belonged to Evil beings; such as the Orcs and the Goblins. These enslaved humanity, and, all in all, attempted to wipe them out. But humanity was safe, for they hid deep within the great-halls of the dwarves. And it was there they gathered their strength. Many years later there would be a mighty uprising, in which evil was defeated, the Goblins and Orcs dethroned and cast down, and in which humanity and Dwarven-kind alike would live in peace, for hundreds of years onward. And among the great heroes of that era, the heroes that would forever be remembered in the Legends and Sagas were the Northmen. Their great strength, skill, and cunning carved a path through the northern lands, and won them back the home that only the oldest of tales told of. When, finally, the northmen helped secure the whole realm shoulder to shoulder with human and dwarf alike, they returned to their lost homeland. Nothing of the culture that had once reigned so many years ago remained. But the northerners weren’t the kind that sit down and grieve; it was time to rebuild. They build long-halls, warm and sturdy, built and meant to last. And around them, great cities rose. And from them, villages spread around the countryside. And all was peaceful.
But the greatest of these halls belonged to that of the Jarl, a handpicked warrior of Prowess, intelligence, skill, and cunning who had been chosen by the king, and favored by all his people. These warrior-Kings were unbeatable in combat; and so it was only logical for them to have the greatest of the greatest guard. These were the Huscarls (housecarls); Warriors whose prowess in combat was only surpassed by that of the Jarl. And among these hand-picked guards was the ancestor of Thorvaldr Wolf-Kin: Sigmund the Far-Seer; A wise man. And he was descended directly from the very warriors that had marched to reclaim the north, all those years ago. For their valiant service and that of their ancestors, each Huscarl received a weapon-gift, each hand-made and of immense value. To Sigmund, He gave the Bearded axe Kaldr Bita, the one that Thorvaldr wields today. This became the family weapon, and was handed down, generation to generation, until it reached Thorvaldr, in a quite unceremonious way indeed; for it was gifted to him by his dying father, and wielded in battle only seconds later. Many generations before this sad happening, there were several warriors that were worth of note. Hakon blood-axe mowed down Orcs and Goblins Alike during the great battle of the frozen fields, in which he charged the Enemy line with a mocking laugh, and a great roar. He destroyed the shield wall with his mighty axe; and when the enemy line broke, the Norse men poured in through the gap; that day the victory went to the north. Another great hero that would lead to the descendance of Thorvaldr was Bjorn the loud. His name is quite adequate, for During the battle under the mountain, when the goblins over ran the Dwarven halls and the dwarves called on The northmen for aid, He charged into the fray, side-by-side with his fellow Huscarls, right after the Jarl. But they all stopped in confusion; everyone, except Bjorn. For what they saw before them boggled the mind; A shield wall of Goblins. And as much as this was unsettling for them, it was unusual to the goblins, for they weren’t used to these disciplined tactics. An Orc commander had been placed among them; and so they had great troubles carrying out his disciplined commands. Bjorn charged directly toward the foe; and what was surely to be his death ended in a great victory. For as he ran, He uttered a deep, loud roar, that almost seemed to emanate from his very soul. The Battle-cry shook the hall, and nearly brought it down. The goblins became so frightened that the line broke right before Bjorn charged in before their midst. The ensuing confusion ended in a Norse victory, and the reclaiming of the dwarves’ great halls. And finally, we come to Thorvaldr’s father, whom served with the Huscarls for many years, faithfully and loyally. He was married to Agatha Honey-tongue, a woman with a voice so sweet that it supposedly ran like molten gold, or so Sigvar liked to say. Thorvaldr was born the first of three sons and one daughter, and would grow up to be much like his father; Tall, strong, but most important of all honorable. The story of How Sigvar perished and passed on his axe to his eldest son Thorvaldr comes in a further tale, in case you’re interested.
Thorvaldr was torn, when his father died. So much so, that he got up, packed up his gear, and set off. He would have many adventures before returning to his homeland of the north, and when he did he was greeted warmly by a kind group of Northmen, and he was taken in like a brother. And for once in a long time, Thorvaldr was at peace, and truly felt like he belonged somewhere once more.
This is a short, written history of a character I made up for another server a long time ago. In the process, I wrote a bit extra lore for said server. It starts from the beginning, to the current age of his family line. Not my best work, but you know.
About your character
Name: Jon Wulfe
Age: 23
Race: Human
Appearance: A tall, visibly strong man well built in most aspects. His blonde hair is neatly-combed, his beard elegantly-trimmed. His eyes are an almost icy blue, which, despite said colour description, seem to irradiate more kindness and warmth than a cold, evil glare. To further add to it, his smile seems kind, his smirk almost playful, If not slightly devilish. Upon first glance, this does not seem to make much sense; for, as said, before you stand a man that looks capable of killing. It doesn’t help that he’s clad in plate, but, it just goes to show you never to judge a book by its cover.
The test
The woman stood, cowering in fear from what was before her.
For before her stood 4 bandits, adorned in masks of awful demons from times long gone, clad in rusty mail, and to go with it their rusty blades. They advanced ever so slowly, as if taking advantage of the fact she was near defenseless, and weak. Under their masks they were grinning widely, seeing their next Victim with almost hungry eyes, the same way a wolf eyes a sheep.
The woman fumbled with the only weapon she had bothered to carry for so long; a small, one-handed crossbow. Her shaky, nervous hands were not much help, and when combined with the rushing thoughts and obvious fear of what these bandits would do to her, she dropped her only chance of survival; the bolt she was loading. She sighed deeply, within herself, knowing this would have never happened had she listened to her father. She was annoyed that she had been so weak, too weak in fact to save herself. Even so, she was a stubborn woman, and knelt to pick up the bolt.
The nearest bandit took advantage of her position, charging in a wild frenzy, sword held up high in a position no doubt to strike her down with the pommel of his rusty blade. Even so, she twitchingly loaded her crossbow, bringing it back so as to lock the mechanism in place, so slowly, so vulnerably….
And yet, it seemed as if the bandit never reached her.
She looked up, to find the bandit stopped in his tracks, holding his throat.
His companions were as confused as she was; they believed she had managed to load the crossbow, somehow, despite the fact she had never even brought it to bear. When the bandit fell, it was revealed he did indeed have a crossbow bolt stuck in his throat. After the initial shock of it all, the next bandit held aloft his rusty blade, charging. This attempt had nothing to do with capture; He fully intended to kill her. And so she looked up grimly, her crossbow half-loaded, as if expecting her death.
But it never came, again.
The light of the sun was blocked for a moment, and the bandit before her seemed to cower in fear. For a second, she thought it was her. For a second second, she believed the thing, or person, behind her was actually here to kill her as well. On both accounts, she was wrong.
For beside her now stood a large man, clad in mail much finer than the ragged lot before them. His dark blue cloak blew gently in the wind. He stood straight and tall as a lord, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He looked onto his foes, and simply said:
“You botherin’ the lass, friends?”
His head was not clad in a helmet. This made it all the worse for the bandits, as they gazed into his cold, determined eyes.
“N-no Sir… not at all…”
“Cut the “Sir” bullshoite. I’m no knight. I’m a simple man, with obviously some kind of moral code, unlike you rabble.”
At this the leader of the bandits, the one clad in a mask of black, bristled. “Let’s see who’s so high and moighty withou’ An ‘ead!”
At this, he raised a large, rusty mace, and charged. This man was not to be taken lightly; the bandit was larger than his companions, his weapons just slightly finer.
And yet, there stood this man, no knight, with no inclination to help the girl, risking his life.
And he didn’t even seem worried.
He raised the mighty weapon he had in his hands, unseen before by the eyes of the woman, who had spent her time gazing upon his cold, icy blue eyes. It was a warhammer, large in shape; it looked like it could crush any head like a walnut. The back was a fine spike, clearly meant to strike down men in armour. Before she could take the strangely beautiful weapon in, her savior stepped forward, walking in a brisk pace.
The bandit reached him, his shout continuing. But by walking at his pace, the warrior had messed up the bandit’s supposed reach of attack, making his strike much clumsier than intended. In fact, the long haft of it struck his shoulder, glancing off without even a scratch.
Before the bandit could react, the man leaned down, and simply said, in that ominously dark voice:
“My turn.”
The warrior grabbed the haft of his warhammer, bringing it to bear, smashing the brunt of it against the man’s chest, throwing him back.
“Well, get up, I don’t have all day, yah know,” the warrior added sarcastically, with a light smirk, whose humor never reached his icy-blue eyes.
The bandit leader lay there, unmoving, groaning.
The warrior, shaking his head in a dismissive, uncaring gesture, turned to the bandit’s awestruck, confused companions. It didn’t take their facial features to know that they were scared out of their wits. In fact, one went on to believe that this was a sign from the lords above, a punishment for his years of banditry. He cowered in fear more than his companion, who raised his axe in turn, and charged.
The warrior savior stood his ground, his hammer held aloft.
The man covered distance rather quickly, raising his axe over his head for a deadly strike.
He simply stood there, as if ready to die.
But it was clearly not his day to, for he stepped forward, bringing down his massive hammer.
It was a sickening sight; the hammer bashed through the meager parry that came to meet it, crushing anything underneath with a sickening, wet crunch. He kicked the body away, turning to the bandit’s companion, who in turn had drawn his blade, but stood there, knees shaking with fear.
“You, take off your mask.” The mystery warrior called out.
The bandit, in no position to resist, dropped his sword, removing his mask. Under it was the face of nothing but a boy, not even a hair on his face.
“Tell me lad, what be yer name?” The man called out, in a strangely kind manor.
J-J-Jake, m’lord… Jake Svenrirssen. He answered, cowering slightly less pronounced.
“Well Jake, son of Svenrir, do you know what happens to trouble makers around here?” He called out. He could swear, there was a hint of malice in his tone.
“Y-y-yes, m’lord… hanging…” He called in return, gulping. Almost immediately, the boy fell to his knees sobbing. “P-PLEASE! IM SORRY! I WON’T EVER DO IT AGAIN! I SWARE!”
As he stood there, the large warrior sighed, walking over to the boy.
“Go.” He simply said.
“W-wha?” The boy looked up and said puzzled eyes through the glare of tears and fear.
“You ‘eard me. Now go, before I change my mind.” He added. Maybe a bit menacingly, but it was to get a point through.
The boy took no time in waiting as he ran off, without ever turning back at his two companions.
It was at that, that there was a cry of despair.
The warrior Swiveled, to find the woman caught off guard, trying to fight off the bandit leader, who was trying to grapple her into a headlock, in order to put her in a hostage situation.
The grim hero walked towards them in long powerful strides, dropping his hammer near the man as he did. His strides had quickly turned into a sprint, which abruptly stopped as he tackled him with brute strength, pinning him against the ground.
He gave the merciless bandit no mercy, not even a last, witty word.
He simply beat him with an armoured gauntlet, long and even after he was dead. He stood up, kicking the body to one side, looking around. He found the woman, nothing but a teen, sitting near a pile of rocks, cradling herself, crying. The warrior strode up beside her, sitting down next to her.
“You did very brave, against that bandit you know.” He called out, in a mending voice.
“W-what?” She said, sniffling quietly.
“Foightin’ him off like that, near the end. You should be proud of yerself.” He said, adding an encouraging smile at the end, whose sense of warmth now reached his eyes.
“Anyways, let’s get yah home. Wouldn’t want a lass loike yerself gettin’ hurt. Besides, the wilds ‘round ‘ere are a dangerous place to be—“
“What’s your name, Sir?” She asked, slightly timidly but loudly.
“I am Jon, of House Wulfe. But please, call me Jon; I am no knight, m’lady.” He said, with a smirk. “Now, c’mon, let’s get yah home.”
With that the two set off on a relatively short journey to a fairly-sized, plain village, late at night. He dropped the girl off at her home, knocked, and waited patiently by her side as her parents opened the door, wide-eyed, full of joy. But before they could even turn to her saviour, He was gone, strode off to yet another journey in some faraway land. And though many would never know who Jon of House Wulfe truly was, his tale was well-known in the fairly-sized village ever after, known as the wolf warrior, in compliance to his wish to not be known as a knight.
