Tormund Drakkensvald
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Roaming warrior


Dragonflayer Clan


Titan Pantheon


Ulf Drakkensvald (Father)
Unknown Mother


Neutral Good



Tormund Drakkensvald is a Vrykul native to the continent of Northrend. Born to the dominant Dragonflayer Clan, Tormund has watched the Scourge rise and fall, the Legion invade, and more Vrykul fall to dark ambition than he would ever be proud of. Regardless, Tormund remains an amicable Vrykul with a love of good food, ale whenever he wants it and stories to share over good battles.


Tormund is young Vrykul. A huge, shambling, shaggy, hairy mess of twelve to thirteen feet tall, and was just beginning to fill out his frame. Aged eighteen to nineteen, no one was quite sure which, filled with dark, brown hair, a crooked, clever grin and a few scars around the chest and arms. Tormund has a somewhat humble personality for a Vrykul, and often thinks of himself as thick-headed. His Father often told him he was as thick as a castle wall and slow as a Shoveltusk. Despite this, Tormund has grown up with a sense of adventure, and his travels and natural revulsion of the Scourge have led him to develop a sense of right and wrong. 



As a member of the Dragonflayer Clan, Tormund was born to a Vrykul family very much active in Northrend. The frozen continent had never been 'peaceful,' but it was at least quiet. Tormund's Village was on the western side of the Howling Fjord. He had no real memories of his Mother and his Father, Ulf, had always been tight-lipped with information about her. Tormund respected his Father for what he learned from him, but was also victim to some of his abuses when he was deep in his cups. Perhaps the greatest thing he learned from Ulf was what not to be. At a young age, Tormund listened to his Father's old tales of OdynThorim, and Tyr, Gods of the Vrykul who had seem the world through its darkest ages. These stories would be something for the two to bond over as they grew older. From the Third War onwards, The Vrykul Clans watched with uncertainty as a dark presence began descending upon them from the Northlands, and strange, rotting creatures began walking the wastes.

The rise of the Scourge turned Vrykul civilization on its head, with two distinct camps emerging. Those who wished to remain loyal to the Titans, their long-forgotten and seldom heard Gods, and those who wished to embrace this new 'Death God' that styled itself as master of the Scourge. Just a young warrior at the time no older than twelve, Tormund had little choice but to watch as the Titan loyal camp grew slowly and steadily pushed out by the rising tide of the Vrykul nation that wished to find immortality in the Scourge. The final blow came when the Scourge unearthed the halls of the ancestors where Vrykul in stasis had been sleeping since the age of the Old King, Ymiron. Now with their fingers around the heart of Vrykul culture, Tormund's people fully embraced the Scourge, competing against the Scourge's enemies as well as each other for the right of ascension into powerful forms of Undeath.

Due to the Dragonflayers' position within the Scourge, most Vrykul were not simply plagued and reanimated. Instead, the Vrykul were determined to train and prove their superiority over all others. As such, Tormund did not see much of the Scourge. Only the pasty-faced humans in dark robes that would come to their village to collect their pound of flesh, and the shambling corpses walking with them. Tormund took an instant dislike to the Scourge, taking every opportunity to avoid them, or even throw rocks as their passing servants - an action that nearly cost him his life once, the Cultists rounding on the young Vrykul and intending to kill him for his audacity, before Ulf intervened and intimidated the Cultists into dropping the matter. Regardless, Tormund earned a beating from his father that night and developed a bitterness for what he could only see as defending the Scourge occupation.

After years of conflict, the Scourge were finally defeated by Azeroth's mortal kingdoms. The undead began a slow retreat back to Icecrown, leaving a devastated Vrykul population to pick up the pieces of their shattered kingdom. Having sided with the Scourge against all life, little sympathy was shown towards the Vrykul people who had fought alongside the undying legions. Chaos broke out amidst the Clans as blame was thrown around furiously. Some Vrykul blamed the mortal races for defeating the Lich King. Others insisted the Scourge itself had proven itself flawed and weak. None dared assume the mantle of responsibility for the Vrykul earning their own fate.


This state of chaos continued for several years, by which time Tormund had reached the age of seventeen. Frustrated with his people and their seeming inability to realize the cause of their miseries, Tormund at last gave up upon them, choosing to leave his home and roam the wastes of Northrend. From the great Dragonblight to the Grizzly Hills, he roamed, hunting and scavenging and living on what he could. He began trading furs and kills to Vrykul trappers in return for coin, but his preferred payment was knowledge. He'd thought back to the tales of the Old Gods of the Vrykul, the Gods who had ordered Azeroth, and how his people had followed them. Tormund would eventually manage to piece together an incomplete picture of his people's history with the Gods, and how thousands of years ago they had left Northrend to find the Land of the Gods.

With little else to live for in Northrend, Tormund collected what little he had, taking his sword and belt and leaving in the middle of the night. He felt shame for not saying goodbye to his father, but was unable to bring himself to do so. He headed down the cliffs of the Fjord and prepared a longboat with a single sail. He'd gathered more than a month's worth of supplies and set sail south, determined to repeat the journey of his ancestors or die trying.

The voyage proved long and grueling. Though not an incompetent sailor, he'd never spent so long out at sea, and fatigue set in quickly. Combined with his carefully rationed food, Tormund often found himself exhausted upon the waves and with few opportunities to fish and replenish his supplies. During the journey, he reached a point where he had just under half of his food and water left, leaving him only the choices of turning back and reaching land or pressing on to the unknown. Without land in sight in either direction, Tormund tightened his belt and decided to continue onwards.

On the twenty-ninth day of his journey, Tormund fell asleep in his Longboat, having only a few days of supplies left to him. He dreamed of his father that night, and the better times they had shared together. He felt there was some message to try and understand, but could not work out the answer. When Tormund awoke however, he saw upon the horizon a distant flame. It meant land, and within the day, he was pulling his weathered vessel onto the shores of Stormheim and hollering triumphantly like an idiot.

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