Once there existed a tribe of wolven, assembled from the remnants of once greater tribes. These packs of northern, southern, eastern and western wolven migrated slowly, seeking a land to settle. Slowly adding to their numbers as they found more and more wolves seeking a new home. Amongst them were males and females of many shades, black, white, grey, and more colours. Brown, tan, changing into every hue available in fur.
Though this tribe of packs, numbered at fifty, there were precious few to each pack, so each banded together, each followed the lead of a single black furred Wolven. Artan, the current Artan's grandsire, and for whom the current Artan was named for. This alpha Wolven united the men, banded them into a force not to be reckoned with. Using them to protect the pack. Learning of each, so to use his strengths in their unique ways, and prevent the use of their weaknesses.
It was many months, perhaps even years, that these wolves wandered for. Siring new children, as those already born grew, some becoming adults in their own right. Eventually, they found a land that they chose to settle. Fertile woods from which to hunt, readily accessible streams, and as far as they knew, little interference from other races.
The packs of this tribe began to grow, more children being born and raised. Slowly, they began to spread, and slowly they realized what was about them. Artan had been born by the time the first skirmish with a nearby human village occured. It was this skirmish that marked the passing of his grandsire, who was slain by the village's champion. The tribe exploded into chaos, many wolven males coming forward to lead the tribe in Artan's grandsire's absence. This ended in battles, private matches to establish who was the stronger. It was Artan's father that won these disputes, and it was him that rallied the packs once more. So it was they set out to war upon this village. The human men were slaughtered, the women and child taken as slaves and servents. And so it was that Fenris' vengence was stated.
Fenris' anger finally soothed, he began to establish his borders, sending scouts to discover the limits of their territory, only to discover a dismaying fact. More settlements were arrayed about them, circling them. So it was, that he went to each and with them established borders with the promise of the same fate as the razed village. For a time, this threat worked.
It was for years, that the settlements around the wolven lands accepted the fact that the land was Wolven, that they ignored the menace in the trees. Simply bidding their hunters to hunt elsewhere. It was during this time that Artan grew into his first decade. And then, it came to an abrupt end.
Artan had been hunting with his father, a bonding between father and son, as his sire taught him to hunt, and Artan followed him obediantly and learnt eagerly. Between them, the father and son downed a large boar, and between them they dragged it upon branches and vines back towards the settlement. Then they tasted, smelt, smoke, and the boar was left behind. Then there was howls, violent sounds of anguish, anger and even fear. So it was that Artan was left, his father disappearing into the bush, rushing to the aid of his tribe.
Artan arrived much later, walking in upon the sight of his father upon his knee's, blood leaking from his shins and thighs, his chest baring the wounds of swords. Above him stood some mercenary lord. Artan stood, his eyes wide as he watched this man cut down his father. And then, Artan was raising his bow, pulling back the arrow his father had crafted for him, and he put it between the bandit lord's eyes. Then, he did the most foolish thing of his life, he tossed aside his bow and ran forward, claiming his father's spear as he turned to lash out at the remaining survivors. There were but four, four that stood amongst the corpses of his pack, though Artan could smell, could hear, and just knew that there were more bands just like this at the camps of the other packs sheltered so close by.
The four men approached the wolven cub with mockery and humour, despite the fate of the bandit already dead by his hand. They laughed at his attempt to wield his father's weapon, laughed as he thrust it at them. Laughed again as it fell from his hands. And then they laughed as they beat him, bound him, and then dragged him away.
It wasn't long before the laughter ended, and it wasn't much longer, before he was dragged to kneel at the feet of three chieftens, their eyes appraising him, the bandits that carried him, and their kin that had razed the camps of the other wolven. Artan stared hate and anger at the humans, and as one of the chieftens came to appraise him, with talk of turning him into a slave, a trophy, he bit the hand. Then he was hit, struck unconcious...
Artan awoke to the sound of the four that had captured him, laughing as they juggled the coins in their purses. Talking of how they had scored a much richer share without the one that Artan had killed. They ate, handsomely, scoffing down bird, and bread and other delicacies that Artan had never tasted. And then they were sleeping... It was not hard for Artan to scratch his way out of his bindings, and it was just as easy for him to slip away into the woods. What was the hardest however, was having no where to go. No home to return to, no way to settle and build a tribe of his own... The only thing he knew was hunger, and thirst... So it was that he sated those needs. He drank from a stream, he ferreted out the burrows of rabbits, prying them from their holes. Then, he was walking back into the camp. One rabbit was skinned, gutted and cooked over the fire, the second, resting beside him. The bandits stirred at the sounds of crackling juices each emitting their own sounds of alarm as they woke to find him free. Then, he was tossing the rabbit at the others, claiming his cooked meal and retreating to his own corner of the camp.
Such life became, he followed the human bandits that had slain his people. Guided them to food and water, taught them how to survive in the way his father taught him. Keeping them warm in the winters, and fed during the summers, autumns and springs. Though, soon their coin was traded away, soon they grew discontent. The band threatening to split. Their deeds tearing each other apart like the coin to perform them had drawn them together. Boasts turned into arguments, recollections turned into demands for silence. Then, one night it ended. The four mercenaries sat around the campsite arguing, as Artan simply lay, worrying the bone from his leg of the boar he had led them to. It was in this state of contentment, that he had fallen asleep. Warm and fed, needing nothing else in the word. Then, he was awoken by a sound he had grown used to, the sound of blade parting flesh. He woke, startling, rolling away from the blade thrust down at him. Wide eyed, fearful, he cowered away from the metal man that stood over him, a two-handed blade held within his grip. Another stilled his attacker, words and statements, flowed between the two, child, captor, were mentioned... And then, the knights were leaving.
Once more, Artan was threatened with lonelyness, a simple abandonment to nature and it's cruelties. Like the last time, he chose to follow. He walked as the knights rode upon their horses, and when the knight's camped, Artan hunted. He brought them food, water, let them keep the skins of his kills, to be made into whatever they wished. And then he slept amongst them. So, life was.
It had been little more then a month, when Artan first saw his new home, a simple village, small huts inhabited by hunters, farmers, swine-herders and breeders. This was where the knights abandoned him, leaving him in the care of a hunter. And this is where he spent the last few years of his life. Hunting, butchering, skinning, under the watchful eye of the human villager. And when he grew old enough, when he grew bored, he set out.