Vandarr the Red Wolf

As the sun was a bleeding wound on the horizon, casting the broken lands of the Howling Wastes into a desolate, crimson glow the wind, dry and sharp as a flint blade, whistled through the cracked bones of the earth. In the distance, shadows moved — men in the hides of beasts, armed with bronze spears and obsidian knives, whispering in a tongue older than the stones beneath their feet. But towering above them, astride a black steed frothing at the bit, was a figure draped in the crimson light of the dying sun — Vandarr the Red Wolf. He was a giant of a man, bare-chested save for the red dire wolf skin cloak he had slain to earn his name. His hair was a tangled mane of black, streaked with blood and clay, and his eyes were twin pools of shadow, reflecting neither mercy nor mirth.