Born in the mist-shrouded eaves of Kerys' ancient wildwoods, where the great rivers carve secrets into the earth and the wind whispers of forgotten kin, Muttfyre entered the world not with a cry, but a defiant howl. A wee bairn of no noble line—scion of wanderers lost to the Sundering's echoes—he was swaddled in moss and furs by a crone herbalist who found him mewling amid the roots of a thunderstruck oak. She named him for the mongrel spark in his mismatched eyes: one hazel as autumn leaves, the other burning like forge embers, a mutt's fierce heart afire.
From his first tottering steps through thorn-choked trails, Muttfyre was the forest's own. Suckled on wild goat's milk and honeydew, he shadowed the deer herds before he could speak, his tiny hands clutching a sling fashioned from vine and stone. The crone taught him the ranger's creed: tread light as mist, strike swift as viper, read the world's tongue in bent grass and snapped twig. By his eighth winter, he felled his first boar with a yew bow he'd carved himself, its antler-tipped arrows drinking deep of the beast's lifeblood. The wilds were his hearth, the canopy his roof; he slept beneath stars that remembered the old gods, dreaming of horizons beyond the Home Valleys.
Yet fate, that cruel archer, loosed its shaft when raiders—shadowy folk from the Wildlands—torched the crone's glade. Muttfyre, fourteen and wiry as a whipcord, escaped with naught but his bow, a spear hafted from ash, and a scavenged roundshield etched with woad runes. Vengeance burned in his veins like wildfire; he honed his craft in solitude, becoming ghost to the unwary: ambushing caravans from the underbrush, picking off sentries with unerring shafts, vanishing like smoke on the breeze. But the spear taught him steel's song—the brutal thrust after the arrow's kiss, the shield's defiant crash against the storm of foes. No fragile wood-dweller, he; a ranger tempered in blood, blending the hawk's eye with the wolf's fang.
Now, full-grown and scarred as old leather, Muttfyre makes his lair just outside the town of Skogheim, at the end of a river cradled under a sheer mountainside—not too far from its sturdy palisades, that bastion of kindred spirits by the Eastern River Bridge. Clad in patched leathers and furs, his fiery mane braided with feathers and bone charms, he pledges his bow to the RP Raids—those grand tales woven in clash of arms and roar of warcries. Ally or foe, he tracks you through fog or fen, his spear a promise, his arrows a judgment. For in Muttfyre beats the wild heart of Pax Dei: untamed, loyal, ever-hungry for the hunt.