[PRE-MADE] Parsifal Gevaudan Wismerhill

Name:
Parsifal Gevaudan Wismerhill

Alias:
The Black Moon
Old Red

Age:
41

Gender:
Male

Species:
Werewolf

Allegiance to House:
Targaryen

Role to House:
Sellsword
Mercenary


Personality:
Parsifal is a veteran of the battlefield, skilled and branded by the strains of war yet all these scorching fires have left their mark on his personality; the screams and cries of damned villagers in flight for rampaging marauders continue to haunt him days after the flames simmered down. Throbbing migraines and agonizing headaches leave this fierce warrior stalked by the ghosts of his past all rendering to the blackening of his already grim soul. War had been etched in his flesh, scars running deep into his mind, making him grow vicious, relentless and without the slightest trace of remorse. The wicked pleasures of battle, the cruelty of bloodshed, tormented souls crying for mercy as his blade burrows itself deeper into his enemy’s guts. His appetite for combat and lust for sorrow and misery has stripped him bare from common human dignity, making him truly a master of the macabre…

One rather distinct trait to his identity is his insatiable thrust for power; Parsifal has underwent one drastic downward spiral into the depths of the obscure ever since he’d been given the role of Captain of the King’s Guard at House Frey in his glory days. The responsibilities and possibilities of that newly acquired role lead to the downfall of this once honorable knight, turning him to nothing but a shadow of his former self, utterly deranged by his lust for power and followers. After a serious of sinister events in the course of a single year he became one of Westeros’ most wanted criminals and adversary to the Seven Kingdoms, leading to the foundation of his dreadful band of brothers known as the Black Moon Renegades. If there’s a crime occurring where all victims are left to pay the ferryman on their way to eternal damnation, one can bet their last piece of silver Parsifal and his scoundrels have a hand in these fatal events weither in their new home within the Dothraki Sea or the Kingdoms of Westeros…

Beside of his natural harshness and cruelty Parsifal is cursed with an additional blemish on his identity for his loyalty is limited in both time and servitude. His greediness towards supremacy has countless times driven his sword to deviate from those he’d been intended to protect and serve. He’s a treacherous and deceitful swordsman, whose alignment below a banner can flip on the blink of an eye, making him betray those he’d once warded for harm with deathly results. Anyone who can outbid his current fee or simply offer him that, which he desires more than the confidence of others, will earn the brief services of his dreadful though skilled sword. Concepts such as loyalty, duty and responsibilities are void on this sellsword for only his daughter and the band of thugs he’s founded hold little importance to him. Most soldiers of the Black Moon Renegades know about their master’s devious ways, though have learned to keep their mouths shut if they value their precious lives; those unfortunate to get on Parsifal’s bad side may encounter a nemesis unyielding to their plights …

Beneath his sinister mask of venom and bile, Parsifal has however been hiding a secret even his own daughter is unaware off as merely speculations are going around regarding the origins of his facial scars. The hunger and thrust of his infection makes his natural affinity to cruelty grow even stronger with every fall of dusk; a reluctant addiction to the liberation of the moon rising has made him forsake that last thread of humanity even to his great dismay. His impatience and nervousness by the blood thrust makes him unpredictable and unreliable to the point he no longer can control the urges and simply go primal again. This bestial desire made him forsake the thing he held most dear, sending his daughter to undergo the punishment intended for him, while the blind obedience of his man is often repaid with a vicious knife in the back when opportunity presents itself. Now his hunger is aimed on a new goal for the exiled House of Targaryen seemed to be marching to war for the throne unrightfully taken from them; perhaps these lords of Dragons can hand him the burning ruins of his former lord for that’s one cause he’d willingly fend for…

Whereas most infected with the curse of Lycanthropy to turn man into werewolf are unaware of this condition or defying of this feral nature; Parsifal however accepted this bane as a blessing. Most reject the hunger and thrust as a dreadful condition forces humanity to disappear at every rising full moon, bounding their powers for ever reaching their full potential; Parsifal greatly differs from most having willingly accepted this bane making the werewolf inside now part of him fully. The thirst is nurtured, the beast controlled as Parsifal has many traits of the wolves now expressed in his person. The alpha leader mentality, the working in pacts and the serene yet macabre decision to hunt their marks in the darkest of night are but a few examples of how Parsifal has accepted the Lycanthropy as his ultimate faith. Residing intentionally within his caravan at the Black Moon Renegades during the day to mask the growing hunger, Parsifal only wanders outside at the fall of dusk when the moon grants him his superior power. Seldom does he receive his own clients, his face scarcely seen by those purchasing his services for his identity and the bane branding within his veins are guarded from other’s attention. Secrecy is key to his werewolf existence…

Physical Description:

Pale almost transparent like the webbings of spiders, Parsifal’s skin is a feeble ominous sight to behold, riddled with scars of war and most obvious off all the infected wounds of his bane. His facial expression is traced with deep gashes and teeth markings all affected by diseases and ailments that leave these wounds festering with pus and murky excretion with a toxic sickening stench. The first row of teeth marks has left a symmetrical imprint in his thinning skin, while cuts and gapes surround his boney cheeks, his nose disgraced by a deep laceration where the werewolf canine broke through his defense, leaving Parsifal now bearing this bane on his shoulders. Eyes of a nightmarish blue shade, almost like the pale light of the moon that summons him, this swordsman has the image that leaves children haunted at night and guards to instinctively reach for their sword hilts. Beside of these dreaded traits resulting from the Lycanthropy bane, the family characteristics of the Wismerhill name return in his fierce presence. Long hair shoulder length and in that twisted firebrick red color that is also found in his daughter, Parsifal still shows minor traces of the former glorious appearance of the captain of King’s Guard in House Frey…

Attire wise Parsifal has undergone a drastic transformation from the guardsman equipment of House Frey to the deep crimson tabards fabricated from raw yet miraculous quality fabrics found within the Dothraki Sea wilderness. Robes gallant yet fearsome in their daunting details embroidered within the Bordeaux tints add that mysterious flair of ominous nature. Crude scale maille vambraces and greaves are fastened tightly, granting an additional nightmarish presence when entering a room while the true secret to his appearance falls beneath those tabard robes of ceremonial origins. The skeletal structure of a werewolf template is pinned in steel wire on his vestments displaying the roots from the man they were looted from as a cape of maroon velvet fans out in his steps in a villainess routine. Beneath the garments is a cuirass of strange alloy that Parsifal plucked from the inanimate corpse of the werewolf infecting him; thin like merely leather, but burdening heavy and sturdy beyond compare make only those affected by Lycanthropy able of carrying this tremendous weight without falling to their knees. When the full moon however climbs on the horizon, Parsifal undergoes the most severe of transformation as the bones are reset, an impenetrable fur coat grows from below his spider-silken skin and teeth and nails evolve into deathly fangs and claws…

Powers and Abilities:
One ability not influenced by the Lycanthropy infection is Parsifal’s masterly understanding of the ways of the sword, making him for cette reason a former champion of House Frey. Whenever his slender boney fingers meet the firm grip of a blade, especially his most esteemed Raum, swordsmanship becomes an art form without equals; every cut, slice and swing of the edged steel becomes part of an illustrious whirlwind of metal and blood, turning his slashing sword strokes into an intricate ballad of deathly aftermath. Where guardsmen and soldiers were trained to kill swiftly and with mercy in bringing a fast and painless death without maiming the corpses for those left behind, Parsifal has become a brilliant genius in prolonging the suffering and agony of his opponents. Raum in his hands becomes accurate like a surgeon’s scalpel, cutting those vital points in his foe’s body that inflict the worst of pains, severing the tendons to leave his adversary paralyzed to his mercy…

The Lycanthropy bane rushing within his veins grants a variety of abilities coming forth from this dreadful ailment; strength surpassing human limits as every muscle in his body yields to relentless force when fists can crush bones, blows can shatter rocks and bites can crumble bones to dust in mere seconds. The bestial instincts enhance his reflexes, turning this swordsman into a swift and clever warrior able of anticipating his opponent’s next move. His senses are sharpened; ears hearing the vaguest of sounds, a nose keen on detecting subtle scents as the primal urges of the beast lurk still beneath the surface. These werewolf abilities however come at a price most don’t find worthy of paying as the thirst and hunger coarse this man into feral frenzies where anyone standing between him and the feeding ritual might suffer a gruesome and agonizing death by monstrous fangs and a relentless bite that infects those who survive the initial attack…

The most daunting of abilities Parsifal brings to the battlefield only rises when the full moon climbs the horizon for the lycanthropy bane induces the savage changes. When this pale light of night rises from those mountains, silver rays of this astral form falling upon those darkened scars of this face, the transformation starts it dreadful cycle. Excruciating pain overcomes when his bones reset to their alternative conformation, joints reverting, back arching and as the agony forces this wicked warrior to his knees only to have his inner beast emerge from the darkness within; the crimson tabard gets torn to shreds, yet the armor beneath merely adjusts as this werewolf form is further strengthened by the ominous ward within the plated shell. Viciously grown to a tetrapod, a fur coat of deep rosewood shade, fangs deathly and claws gripping turn Parsifal in an uninhibited monster with a haunting howl for blood and death. The armor of illusive origins now offers him protection, even use the weakness of his kin to his advantage as this werewolf turns to a fearsome hellhound with a scorching bark and flaming gaze to stalk the night in an unstoppable frenzy…



Strengths and Weaknesses:
Strengths:
Heed caution for the bane of Lycanthropy rushing through his veins, granting strength and agility to Parsifal’s matured body; unmatched in combat, skilled in the art of gruesome violence this sellsword’s name is only hushing whispered by all afraid to invoke the man belonging to those three syllables of his name. Once the blades are drawn there’s no stopping this rampaging warrior from unleashing his enraged furry coming from the hunger; entire companies of guardsmen are cut down to their knees in one swift blow after the next as the thirst for blood only fuels his wrath. Leading the Black Moon Renegades he’s renowned for venturing on suicide missions under the pale light of the moon, shedding blood wherever his client’s given task takes him without the slightest trace of remorse of restraint…

Another strength that falls within this treacherous villain is the ability of motivating the soldiers no matter how grim the reality is that they’ll be facing; his unique talent to transfer his bloodlust onto others, make them long for vengeance and redemption as his forked tongue feeds them lies and false promises about glory, honor and fame on the battlefront. Every mission he leads his company onto is introduced by a formal speech held to rally up the men for they all know the spoils that would fill their coin purses at the end. Mostly criminals, highwayman and outlaws are vulnerable to his twisted words, but mostly everyone thirsting for retribution and vengeance can experience these same influences as Parsifal proudly leads these men into their own graves…

Weaknesses:
Coming from his curse come a variety of weaknesses that he can’t defy although several of these racial flaws have been eliminated without his knowing; though fire no longer affects him trapped within his werewolf state by the looted armor, his tolerance to silver has been severed to none. When this shiny metallic alloy touches the bare of his skin, burns fester across this flesh like venom crawling through his veins. Almost like an allergy he’s now vulnerable to silver, some rumor even a flake of the metal traveling through his blood could kill him after a prolonged period of suffering and torment before death makes its liberating introduction. For this purpose all his men are prohibited of even carrying this silvery metal; those defying his commands punished by vicious death…

One more personal vice is his thin patience, making him both unpredictable and dangerously impulsive at the same time; this characteristic flaw was only worsened by the infection of Lycanthropy that merges his impatience with the insatiable blood thirst. When the feeding has taken a while, often the few days’ right before the full moon, Parsifal’s hunger is so unyielding to his restraint that violent seizures, migraine attacks and explosive outbursts of rage dominate his identity until the thirst is lessened. His men know these days are to be avoided, for when the beast is growing famished for the rampaging frenzy; neither friend nor foe can be spared from his wrath, the line between reality and fantasy fading as only the hunger is certain...

Weapons and Armor of Choice:

Parsifal is a sellsword without equals in this trade, a true master of the blade especially when his skeletal fingers fall upon the grip of Raum; an heirloom blade from House Frey in Valyrian steel, reforged by the master blacksmith of King’s Landing Tobho Mott never fell within the hand of the old fool as Parsifal on the first touch of this precious weapon never handed it over to his former master. It’s blade of 40,5 inches long, 2,4 pounds heavy crafted from superb steel of Valyria where three inches of unsharpened and unbevelled ricasso stand over the most astounding cross guard ever crafted in the Seven Kingdoms. Aligned by reinforced claws on the rain guard where the growling grip of a wolf jaw interludes to the razor sharp blade; one central fuller with symmetrical subtle fuller grooves along this main edge makes this broadsword an unbound monstrosity in combat. Its grip widening towards the pommel where the leather bindings tightly fastened reveal three recurve spikes for blunt backhanded attacks, all these features made Raum and Parsifal one unstoppable force to reckon with. One characteristic of this blade is however far more dreadful than the wicked edges, as within this ancient steel harrowed magic is instilled, rendering the sword unyielding to anyone beside of Parsifal; any other than this treacherous sellsword will find the blade heavier than an adult dragon; any other than this treacherous sellsword will find the blade heavier than an adult dragon to lift as the Valyrian steel denied any other master than a Wismerhill…

Even with Raum being a lengthy broadsword of rather encumbering weight, Parsifal’s werewolf ailment grants him sufficient strength to wield this burdening sword with great ease in a single hand, while still being able of holding onto a buckler shield in his right hand. Tarnished by the countless fights he’s embarked on over these years, this reinforced shield has guarded him through many battles as is shown in the cuts, gashes and chips cut in the surface. Crafted out of Dragonbone with Damascus steel studs and rims, this shield representing the olden days when the Wismerhill family name still stood for honor and glory in House Frey; painted with the ancestral crest of the Wismerhill family, half crimson half black and double-headed battleaxe in the same colors stand now mockingly in the face of any enemy unfortunate to wander upon the path of the Black Moon that now shares under this same banner. Unlike the practiced defensive means most people affiliate with buckler shields, Parsifal is one swordsman able of using this protective gear in a blunt fatal weapon; with vigorous blows, rapid thrusts and an relentless swing he’s capable of turning this inherited family shield into a blunt stronghold that comes crashing down with raw force…

Beneath a crimson tabard in satin and velvet embroidery -a faux regal appearance for this sellsword-, hides a set of armor of illustrious proportions carved from an alloy unknown. Parsifal stole this rare set of protective gear from the slain foe that infected him with Lycanthropy, leaving to forever bear those dreadful markings in his facial expression. Thin and flexible in texture but remarkably heavy for such fine craftsmanship the cuirass is composed of six plates sliding perfectly across one another matching together like a neatly fitted glove. Shoulder pieces, a neck guard and defensive garments in flawless symmetry are tightly strapped onto Parsifal’s famished body of skeletal thinness; vambraces and greaves defend the vital points to a swordsman as Old Red is no different beside of masking his armor from spectator’s eye. Every detail found in this protective armor isn’t of his personal taste being too delicate and elegant for his personal liking by for reasons unknown this armor never gets damaged in the transformation under the moon as this remarkable material adapts to the werewolf dynamics…

Background History:

“Week 1: Summons at Seagard Castle”

The men have grown bored with guarding duty as another term of this dreadful service was signed to my company here at Seagard Castle. For four months now have we been guarding abandoned merchant routes and listening to the complaints of the old and senile about the Iron threat that will never return. The bay riddled with the withering skeletons of shipwrecks from the Great War are mocking us with their stories of war and glory, making the men growing bored and fed up with their task. We patrol the coast twice a day hoping to encounter smugglers or marauders, yet our blades are rusting in their sheathes, bows getting fragile by not being use enough as practicing on those preposterous training dummies has become the dreaded routine. I’ve tried to keep them from seeking comfort on the bottom of their drink or in the arms of another harlot but even my authority is melting with every day passing by. Why were we punished with guard duty in this lonely corner of the Crosslands, has our Lord lost purpose for this garrison or are there another reasons to station my brigade in this vacant castle on the western shore…

Out of boredom I’ve started this journal to log my thoughts and worries, to ward myself from the insanity that comes from this routine existence at Seagard Castle. Today has been no different as I’ve requested further practice and training of my men to keep them busy, but the atmosphere is dying. This company is growing a dark resentment to their lord, becoming more defiant to authority as even a life on the Wall becomes more appealing than standing one more day defending a castle long forgotten about by our enemies. Our blacksmith is growing tired of sharpening our blades that grew dull from hanging on the wall yet what more can I demand of his craft when the worst threat we’ve faced, was a wild fox stealing chickens from a local farmer. Our horses are getting fat from the lack of exercise, the dogs becoming lazy as no challenge is offered to theirs or our own skill in this isolated keep, yet our boredom may come to an end as our scout Azra speaks of a Frey rider heading to our direction. We are hoping for a new assignment, even a war to get excited about, but the rider is still two days away. Fingers crossed…


“Week 3: On Route to the Twins”

The courier from the Twins had arrived last night with a formal summons of our lord and king Walden Frey with an important message; our entire garrison was summoned to return to the Twins at once without further explanations or reasons of our presence demanded in our House’s castle. Never before have I received such vague orders, but then again the men are more than eager to be on the road once more and venture forth to the Green Fork on perhaps a daring and important mission. We’ve thrown our armor on, swords strapped firmly to our side, bows tucked on our backs as packed with the bare essentials and headed for the open roads to the Crossings. The horses and dogs seemed eager, the men excited as the cobble stone streets welcomed us with Seagard disappearing behind us. Adventure awaits as the road to Frey House is long and hazardous with the realistic possibility of encountering highwaymen and marauders along the way. To log our journey I’ve decided to bring along this pathetic journal, scribing down our advances and encounters for generations to come. May our journey be swift and secure and the road ahead clear from dangers and threat against House Frey and its citizens that need our skill to keep them safe...

We’ve only been on these cobblestone roads for five days and we’ve already seen more action in the last hours than we’ve seen in the past four months garrisoned at Seagard Castle. In the first night we’ve encountered a band of tugs desperate enough for coin that they’d attempted an ambush, yet they’d not prepared to face against my men hungry for the action. Day two was quiet and spared from hazardous encounters but the weather was most dreadful to write off as even the pages of this journal are stained with rain drops. The third day was a close call when a pack of starved wolves snuck up on us at dawn when the men were still waking up; unfortunate for the youngest of my ranks his injuries were too severe to be treated leaving us no other choice to deliver the final blow of mercy to this young member of my brigade. His memory will be carried on in our hearts as we’ve paid him our final respects before giving him a burial worthy of a hero of war. This accident however hasn’t darkened the mood of the men the slightest bit as the Twins were still a long travel away…


“Week 7: One Day from the Green Fork”

This is week seven in this journal and the road behind us has been long and filled with the perils my men had been dreaming about during guarding duty. The horses are getting tired from burdening our gear, yet we’re still one day away from House Frey’s keep at the Green Fork Crossings; the younger of our ranks have been complaining of sour feet, blisters and sprains being the price one must pay when venturing across the open paths and trails ahead. The veterans of my unit are loving every minute of this as bear pelts, wolf skins and the heads of marauders are now proudly carried in their duffel bags as their honed spoils of war. I know the decision may be unwise but I’ve tasked the squires to set up camp on the shores of the river, giving each of them a well-earned break to enter the Twins by midday tomorrow fresh and rested. The tents have been set, fires lit and the patrols are circling around the campsite while we all share in the pleasant afterthoughts of the journey already made; war stories, legends and heroic tales were exchanged around the fire as friendly brawls and challenging duels were held to test eachother’s worth to determine their place within my company…

Our scout Azra challenged my authority over this regiment and none of my soldiers are permitted to make such statements without being able of backing up their words with steel. The men are all rallied up for I’ll make an example out of this outrageous declaration as blades are drawn and shields are raised for a vicious confrontation between two proud egos. He’d put up a good fight, but eight years of combat experience granted me the upper hand with ease as first blood was drawn in minutes of the duel. My demands are their commands and I’d not tolerate disobedience of any of my men using this challenge as the stepping stone to establish my position once more in this brigade. With brutish force I kicked Azra to the ground, my blade deathly pressed beneath his Adam’s apple in a silent threat before aiding him back to his feet. There are no hard feelings, no unsettled differences between myself and Azra but now that he’s been placed back in his rightful place my authority is reestablished amongst the men. The squires now know who’s in charge, the soldiers once more reassured about their commanding officer, while Azra had actually earned much respect from this defeat only grounded on the skill he’d displayed. I’ve always had great confidence in this scout, but now I know this man is skilled and honorable enough to have my back as I’m considering making him my second in command…


“Week 8: Receiving our Assignment”

For reasons I don’t dare to confide within these pages, I’ve decided to travel to the Twins only accompanied by Azra and leave my men at the campsite to grant them one more day of rest. Azra agreed on this decision as we swiftly left camp at the arrival of dawn and set course to House Frey and hear whatever task await for myself and my men that was so secretive the summons didn’t even include the details. Dressed in the formal colors of our House we entered into the glooming halls of the Twins’ Eastern Castle where Lord Walden Frey welcomed us in that stiff way one would expect of the old lord. After the formalities were through, pleasantries exchanged and courteous bows contributed in the symbolism of servitude, Lord Walden informed us on the specifications of this mission – if one could even call it a mission for the old man seemed to have gone mad – the old fool has summoned an entire garrison of forty eight men stationed all the way in Seagard to run an ‘important’ errand for him as they were given the vital task to collect Frey’s custom requested sword in King’s Landing…

Conflicted with the task given I left the Twins behind with my temper flaring and my mood dark and deathly while Azra tried his best to calm me down with the disdain mission they were sent out on; I, Parsifal Wismerhill, captain of the King’s Guard am nobodies errand boy and this insult to my skill will not be forgotten. I’ve served the Frey family as did four generations before me; my men have fended for this Lord against outnumbering bands of outlaws and enemies and all our services are repaid with the ridiculous demand to fetch his Highness’ sword? Azra may find this task suitable to our platoon, but he’s still young and ambitious hoping to climb the military rankings so he’s blind to the derogatory nature of this quest. I’ve got too much history and victories scribed to my name in the Crosslands to let myself getting pushed around by a feeble old man sitting in his throne all day frightened about the world that waits beyond his castle walls. Perhaps old age has made my Lord forget about my contributions to his fame against the Ironmen invasion, but this is a scorn too condescending for me to tolerate even with the history I share with House Frey…


“Week 10: Following the Trident River”

Still fighting this offended feeling I’ve given the men a false story about our mission to King’s Landing relying fully on Azra to maintain the lie for otherwise facing the disappointment and resentment of my men; They’ll see this quest for the insult I know it to be, they’ll revolt against such condescending task making each of them lose their spotless reputation as soldiers of the Crosslands. For their safety and respectable reputation’s sake he’d feigned an important diplomatic mission to King’s Landing to be the reason of this expedition. I understand the gravity of this insult but with the days going by of our company traveling along the winding road following the Trident River I start to see my battalion splitting into two camps. The veteran soldiers can feel something is wrong; they’re able of seeing past the lies I’ve fed them as we’ve fought alongside eachother long enough to being able of reading the signals; the younger naïve soldiers see this venture as a chance of proving their worth as they side with Azra that fails to see the reality of this expedition – this isn’t a mission in service of House Frey but a glorified errand – I’m growing weary of his optimism, frustrated by the blindness to these circumstances yet for now we’ll have to wait and see…

With the days passing by traveling along the Trident River the schism between Azra and myself grows more obvious with each passing moment we’re embarking on this preposterous mission to King’s Landing. Azra seems to talking in on the young recruits making promises of money and glory while the older generation continuous to look skeptical towards the scout’s preaching. My garrison is now splintered yet we’re still bound together under that banner that continuous mocking me every morning when I wake up. How often the thought of ceasing on this venture crossed my mind, one can’t imagine but the duty and responsibility to House Frey still demands me to comply to his request, no matter how mad they may be; after all this will be the last service I’d devote to the blue and gray crest of House Frey for I refuse to serve a man unwilling to permit me the respectable and honorable way after all these years of service. If the Twins burn down I’ll no longer care for any of it for I’ve told him so. My brigade is more than a simple courier service and their swords deserve more than playing fetch for a man afraid of his own shadow paranoid of all kingdoms in Westeros for he’s so afraid he’d get caught in the middle. The Crossings was indeed standing in the middle of all the turbulence and now they were fetching a sword from King’s Landing a valuable military resource wasn’t around to fend for them…


“Week 13: Campsite near Maidenpool”

Now all doubt about the imminent schism within his ranks was gone as we’ve set up camp outside the perimeter of Maidenpool community and campsite is divided in the party choosing Azra’s side while those who’ve experience real battle have gathered around me. We’ve heard some harrowed rumors from the local town’s folk about wolves howling at the full moon, cattle been stolen from their stables and bodies being found maimed near the outskirts of town. Our scouts have all confirmed the rumors about strange bestial tracks found just outside the surroundings forests; too big for regular wolves, yet not wide enough to be bear tracks we’re puzzled about what inhabits those forests. I’ve instated two additional patrols to stand watch and told all soldiers to sleep with one eye open as we’ll rest up before continuing our journey to the King’s lands in service of our senile lord. Azra has distanced himself from me, becoming more and more defiant of my command over this division as he tries to undermine my authority amongst the recruits with dubious rumors. Perhaps it was wrong for me to have spared him in that duel; perhaps we’d been better off with one more grave to pray to than to see how much further he’ll poison my men, though without prove I’ve no valid reason to confront him…

As I’m writing this entrée in my journal night is falling over the small community of Maidenpool as the sun just settled behind the horizon and the moon gradually climbs on the darkness of the night’s sky. Looking outside a deep grey fog has fallen over our camp, making it nearly impossible for me to see the tent aside of my own; I can see shadows moving, the men acting quirky and anxious for the rumors are starting to get the better of the soldiers. There’s something lurking at us from those woods, hungry and prowling making my grip tightens on the grip of my blade as I calling out for Durza, my finest and most loyal soldier in the entire platoon. My gruesome scarred friend indeed agrees in this threatening ambiance that hangs across the camp, finding something not to be quiet right; this was our instinct, something cultivated from years of experience that wasn’t shared by the younger gents siding with Azra who all managed to sleep in this frightening ambiance. He’d heard enough gruesome stories as did Durza to know not always the town folks were so superstitious to make up tales without having the evidence to back their fables up; none would be able of mutilating corpses like the one’s they’d found scattered on the forest outskirts not just to make the stories seem more real…


“Week 14: The Curse upon Us”

What I confide in this journal may very well be the last words I’ll mark in this world, for my intuition has once more proven to be write. On the eve of the full moon at the Maidenpool Campsite we heard the howling of wolves grow stronger as a dense mist crawled inside our camp; the first to fall were the patrolling sentries who were swallowed by shadows that darted through the foggy veil, then I could see tents crashing down, chaos spreading in the camp as something inside the mist plunked us one by one into an unknown death. The ink of my quill had barely gone dry when I’d saw Durza unsheathe his blade in alert to the ongoing mayhem, followed closely by myself abandoning the scribing within these pages. Something was hunting beneath the pale light of the moon, something unlike we’d encountered before as I could see fear expressed on even the bravest of my men that came gathering around my tent. Forty eight became a twenty still standing against this unknown terror of the fog as almost bestial growls and grunts echoed from the night’s silence. Screams filled the air as we stood collectively and prepared around the last remaining fire this invisible foe had not yet claimed as his own. I’d see shadows swiftly flashing in the mist, multiple of these nightly predators creeping towards us and the first salvo of arrows was send towards these faceless fiends. We’d all seen this tactic before; the strategic hunting of a pack of wolves, yet what breed could tear an adult man with such ease into their demise, especially an armed and skilled soldier baring encumbering armor and relentless steel blades to fend off such attacks. Whose fiery eyes were we seeing like fireflies creeping towards us as we prepared ourselves for our last dying stance…

What exactly is was that attacked us last week I’m not sure yet that last stance became a true testament of our blades when the beasts leaped from the mist with shining fangs and glistening claws that tore through our shields. Larger and stronger than wolves these feral beasts struck us with relentless force from all direction, leaving us swinging blindly in attempt to strike at least of one of them down. Stova was the first of us to deal some damage to these strange fiends as his blade cut through the fur coat, leaving this massive wolf to crash at our feet. Almost like a retaliation, one of these beasts claimed one of ours, leaving us to return the favor with every given opportunity; arms were getting crushed by blitz claw attacks, sides getting slashed open by blade or nail leaving both beast and man to scream in agony. Then the battle quieted down the beasts returning into the mist as a haunting howl seemed to call off the attack. My men had suffered great injuries as I watched Lucien clench onto his side where guts and blood were only held inside his body by his blood stained grip on the wound; Durza still stood unyielding and proud his ground even when I saw those deep gaping wounds that had torn ruptures through his plate armor while Nelson was less fortunate as every cough brought more blood and gal to his mouth. Several shallow cuts could be felt seeping in deep crimson in my light armor but something told me the worst was yet to come…

Feigning confidence to keep my men to stand their ground, I walked several steps into the entangling mist with blade drawn and shield closely warded against my chest as I peered into the fog. I could see the deep imprint of clawed paws all around me in the dirt and mud, bloodstains weither beast or man leaving the ground tainted crimson. I heard the heavy march of a daunting shadow moving towards me, no sneaking or stalking but a straight line in my direction as the eyes flaring like torches was slowly heading my way. The beasts we’d seen before were nothing compared to this one as nearly eight feet in height the monster had raised itself to stand on its rear legs as I grasped the reality of the situation. I could see this monstrosity rise up in front of me, like a giant of legends as fangs like elephant tusks and claws like a dragon marked this beast’s horrific powers. My shield was brought in front of me yet by a single blow the solid steel perished beneath its crushing attack before its vicious bite was felt tearing me in half. Like getting struck by a siege ballista the pressure of this monster’s bite came crushing onto my head as only through the most crude of instincts I swung my blade around in desperate attempt. Whatever happened next will forever remain elusive to me and my men as the next thing I remember is the heated tent of Durza and the stench of medicals balms that entangled my face. Something was dreadfully wrong even though I survived the attack; it felt as if venom was festering within my head, throbbing migraines making me leap in and out of consciousness for little did I know of the burden I’d be bound to bear for the rest of my days…


“Week 17: Marching to King’s Landing”

My recovery was painful and gruesome as I slowly started to piece that dreadful night together as Durza and the small dozen of veterans that had survived this ambush all told me about their latest urges. Each of them felt the same mysterious ailment rushing through their veins, becoming more short-tempered and aggressive as if an unknown hunger pushed their nerves to the limit; they’d all felt this unidentifiable thirst growing stronger, their wounds barely healing into crude and infected scars that would forever make them remember that frightful night. We’d continued our journey to King’s Landing after first saying farewell to our former friends and brothers some too badly maimed by the beasts to even be identified. With thirteen men left, all bruised, broken and bludgeoned by these stalkers of the night they’d all wondered what exactly it was that attacked them for no bodies of beasts had been found when dawn arrived; instead there had been strangers scattered around all showing the cuts of blades and strikes of arrows that carried the colors of their quivers. Durza had brought along a set of illustrious scarlet armor that he’d found when he’d came to my aid, the strangest thing I’d ever seen for it weighed more than it should do yet still flexible and wieldable for which I took it as my own in tribute to my survival of the monster’s attack…

Without a break, without setting up camp for the night we continued our journey to King’s Landing for somehow we didn’t feel tired, nor our wounds even bothered us no matter how severe and infected they may have gotten. Scars were a tribute of the victories a soldier had claimed in battle but somehow these felt more like nasty memories to a defeat that had proved them to having been outmatched by a hunter of the night. Smaller in numbers, lighter in burden our journey moved ahead of schedule for somehow we’re feeling swifter and stronger than ever, all our senses on high alert to our surroundings as this strange sensation came over us of everlasting hunger no matter how much we ate each meal. Wine and ale no longer tastes as good as it used to, the meat became preferred raw instead the nicely charred flavor over the roasted fires as we started to notice the physical changes this mysterious infection brought to us. This morning I broke my blade when practicing with Durza, yet never before had I seen castle steel brake in a single blow with another’s sword. Stova had broken his personal record when they’d gone hunting as he’d thrown his lance nearly one hundred and thirty feet without even breaking a sweet; something ominous was going on as we finally arrived at King’s Landing to collect Frey’s precious parcel…


“Week 19: Heading Home”

The parcel we collected at King’s Landing proved to be a sword, an item of superior craftsmanship as we’d looked with admiration the wondrous Valyrian Steel. Etched on the blade stood the name of this supreme weapon Raum, yet the more I’d let my eyes fall on its astounding steel, the more resentment I started to feel towards Lord Walden Frey who’d send us to fetch this. I’d lost more than half my men for this steel all for the pathetic wage of a King’s guard, so Durza placed the first cornerstone to our downfall. Why not keep Raum for yourself he’d stated to innocently, consider it compensation for the sacrifice we’d made in service of his House but we’d all knew there was more going on. In the last days before the coming full moon we’d all grown more agitated and frustrated; our fuses drastically shortened leaving each of us to randomly explode in a violent temper against random strangers. I noticed myself growing hungry for blood, my fingers itching every second they embraced the grip of Raum as all those (un)fortunate enough to have survived that dreadful day started to show the same nervous outbursts all as if we were growing towards something…

Then we’d learn how twisted our lives would be as the day we were heading back home from King’s Landing, as a full moon would rise that evening; at the fall of night we started feeling sick and nauseous, our stomachs turning and joints getting sour as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. The moon than emerged and the transformation was initiated as for unknown reasons I felt the urge of letting myself back in the light of the moon under the melancholic howling to the moon. Bursts of dark energy took over within my body, bones starting to migrate beneath my flesh where the blackened hair of my body started turning to a dense fur coat. My jaw spread wide, teeth turning to fangs, hands becoming claws as the world all of the sudden was seen through the beast’s eyes. Gazing upon the pack of werewolves that carried the shreds of my men’s armor, I know realized the identity of those beasts being merely cursed men victim to the elusive Lycanthropy bane. Rage and frustration now stirred up, fed by the growing animal instincts as without even a word… howl being exchanged they knew what needed to be done. Punishment would come to the lord of the Twins for having burdened us with this sinister curse all because he’d been too frightened to fetch his own blade. Our quest now was now obvious for in a single night the survivors followed the length of the Trident all the way to the Green Fork before dawn arrived…


“Week 24: Let the Feast begin”

We’d returned to our campsite on the Green Fork river banks where we prepared our vengeance against the man who’d brought this blessed cursed onto us; reluctant to continue bearing House Frey’s colors Durza and myself agreed upon parting with all former affiliations and found a company worthy of our newly acquired abilities: the Black Moon Renegades were born. I’d learned to wield Raum, the blade intended for the Lord of the Crossings, practicing every day with Durza to master this ancient steel into the deathly blade it had always intended to be; the company of survivors, all burdened with the curse of Lycanthropy started adapting to their newly found strength and agility, learning to wield this ominous gift as they prepared for the next full moon to come. Having once before guarded the Twins, we’re aware of every passage and weakness of that keep that no guardsman still loyal to the House would stand a chance to our progress. I’d rip that feeble old man apart for what he’d called upon us and none would be able of standing in our way to revenge and retribution for the wrong that had been done to us…

We’d prepared an entire moon cycle for this night as today would finally be the day the blood of House Frey would cleanse us of the injustice they’d done to us; vengeance would be our as each of the Black Moon Renegades were ready for the battle of their lifetime, swords were fastened to their backs instead off along their belts, the encumbering plate armor exchanged for mere garments as we marched to the castle gates too focused to spot the eyes stalking our every move. We waited patiently before the portcullis of the Keep as the sun once more faded behind the forest tree line only to be replaced by the radiant shape of the Full Moon. The transition went much smoother than the first time, the bones almost instinctively falling in their new formation as man turned to beast and the hunt was on for Frey blood. Driven by an insatiable hunger and thirst the castle guards stood no chance against the thirteen werewolves assaulting their precious city. Arrows were easily dodged with their increased reflexes and optimized agility, the walls neither high nor steep enough to stop the swift climb into the Twins’ castle. One after the other, the Frey guards were torn apart by skilled claws and relentless fangs thirsting for blood as I lead the Black Moon into the halls of House Frey…

Arriving in those prestigious halls of their former lord, the Black Moon had broken through the last of their defenses with the greatest ease only to find betrayal to have bested them; Azra the scout who’d been believed killed at Maidenpool had never been present when the wolves came for them as instead he’d headed back home to deliver the fatal blow to my coup d’état. He’d told Lord Walden about our growing frustration with his pathetic demands, about the blood bath he’d found after the garrison had left behind Maidenpool making the old Lord prepare for the worst of situations. Reinforced by all houses beneath the Frey banner the halls of Twins’ Castle were filled with bow and swords all aimed against the assault of the Black Moon where the most harrowed day in the Crossings history would take place. We’d fought too hard, sacrificed too much to let that senile lord defeat us with the army he’d collected. Live or die that were the option they’d left though never a werewolf would be allowed to live in freedom within the kingdoms of Westeros. The battle exploded in total chaos as claws clashed with steel, arrows struck in the thick fur coats of the beasts while the halls filled in the desperate cries of men. We’d had the upper hand though numbers were too great to be cut down before the moon would have to make place for the sun again. Time was running out…


“Week 28: Crows aware, the wolves have awoken”

The second the first light of dawn entered those blood drenched halls was the moment I knew our curse would turn against us as the relentless force of Lycanthropy returned to its nightly slumber; the Black Moon Renegades were now but practices warriors without armor to further cut through House Frey’s ranks. Tired from the toll the transformation had claimed off them the last foe to fall by the Renegade’s blades was that heinous traitor Azra whom I personally tore apart with Raum. The Valyrian steel slashed through the treacherous scout like a knife through butter as first the blade was trusted through his abdomen, then the steel ripped apart the man’s side before eventually the edge found its way slashing downward through that head he’d once spared. Afterwards the last drop of strength faded from my body as I was the last of the Black Moon to fall abruptly down to the floor overcome by sudden fatigue. That’s where House Frey made their second mistake ever for mercy was shown even towards these traitors by handing over these Renegades to the custody of the Night’s Watch…

Brought in a barred carriage with shackles and restrains in place the thirteen of Black Moon Renegades were transported by the Wandering Crows to the Wall up North for a life-sentence of service and dedication to the ranks of the Night’s Watch. Kept feeble and weak by the few fighters who’d actually understood the uninhibited force of Lycanthropy escorted these imprisoned warriors to the wall. Speed was vital for this mission as the Wall in the North was at least three weeks of riding away from the Green Fork Crossings and the next full moon was only twenty eight days away. At Castle Black all the preparations were installed to restrain a rampaging werewolf in transformation yet nothing could have prepared these Wandering Crows for the unpredictable weather conditions they encountered at Moat Cailin, slowing them down miserably. A dreadful blizzard prevent further traveling for facing the snow storms of the North would be deathly and fatal to both prisoners and prison keepers yet the Watch’s time had ran out. The full moon had arrived two days early as the caravan was still one day away from Castle Black, leaving the Wandering Crows unprotected against the pack of veteran soldiers who now underwent the empowering transformation to werewolf form. None of the Crows were spared, nor were those send to reclaim the wanted members of the Black Moon Renegades who’d found safety across the Dothraki Sea. Here their bond grew stronger as the Renegades became the most feared of mercenary groups in the Seven Kingdoms all lead by the Raum wielding hand of Parsifal Wismerhill…