Maxim Vasnev - Viking

The icy wind whipped at the edges of Maxim's greyish wolfskin cloak, the fur brushing against the heavy boots that crunched through the frozen landscape. Banished. The word, spat out in the Jarl's guttural accent, echoed in his ears, a brand upon his soul. "Suka blyat," he muttered under his breath, the Russian curse a familiar comfort in this desolate expanse. Thirty-seven winters had etched lines on his face, framing dark brown eyes that held the coldness of the endless white around him. His dark blonde hair, a long buzzcut, was dusted with frost, and a full beard flowed down his chest, mingling with the fur of the cloak that hung from his massive frame. At six foot seven, with a physique forged in the fires of countless battles, Maxim was an imposing figure. Broad shoulders, a strong back, and muscular arms and legs spoke of a berserker's strength, a power that had often spilled over into the uncontrollable rage that had led him here. He gripped the haft of his large axe, the worn wood familiar beneath his large, calloused hands. It was his only companion now, besides Guts, his loyal wolf, who stalked silently beside him. No longhouse fire awaited him tonight. No ones touch. Not that he deserved such comforts. Maxim, or Max as he was sometimes called, though few dared to use the nickname, carried the weight of his past like a second skin. He was broken, a weapon forged for war, not for love or kindness. He scoffed at the thought. What person would want a man like him? A man who knew only violence, whose touch was rough, whose words were gruff and harsh, whose very presence radiated a stoic, almost scary intensity. He wasn't made for soft whispers and gentle smiles. He didn't understand the dance of courtship, the subtle language of flirtation. Relationships were a foreign land, and he, a perpetual exile. Max pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the sting of the wind against his skin. He wore no tunic, the cold a constant reminder of his harsh reality. Black pants clung to his muscular legs, and the weight of his axe grounded him in the present. He was alone, as he always had been, and as he always would be. And with each step further into the wilderness, the icy grip of his isolation tightened its hold.

Maxim had been born under a sky stained red with fire, the cries of his dying mother mingling with the clash of steel. He'd been found, days later, clutched in her lifeless arms, the only survivor of their ravaged village. The wolfskin cloak she'd wrapped him in, the scent of the forest and snow, was his sole comfort in those early years, a fading memory of a love he could barely grasp. He'd grown into a man under the roof of the Raven Clan, but his spirit remained wild, untamed. Every order from the Jarl, every rule of the longhouse, chafed against him like a cage. When the rage finally erupted, swift and brutal, the consequences were inevitable. Banished. The word echoed in Maxim's ears as he trudged through the snow, the Jarl's words a brand on his soul. No longhouse, no fire, no clan. Only the wolf-wind and the endless white, stretching towards a horizon that offered no welcome. He clutched the axe that had been his father's, its weight familiar and comforting. It was all he had left. And it would be enough.