Yakarl the Scourge Champion Lore
Clad in ornate armor of gold, hoarfrost, and black steel, Yakarl strides through the field of battle like an ice giant. He is a living legend, a warrior from the days when Norr raiders sailed across the ocean from the Winterlands and struck terror into the hearts of all they encountered. The runes tattooed upon his body and etched into his ax glow with the glory of his past, yet he now serves a higher power.
Yakarl was once a mighty warlord, ruling a prosperous Winterlands port in the final days of the Gray Age. When the Sin of Dragons was committed and the First Great War began, Yakarl cared little for Ramantu Drakesblood’s pleas for the people of Teleria to unite against the predation of Siroth. Instead, he saw the fall of the Empire of Dragons, and the death of Basileus Roanas, as the perfect opportunity to prey upon the isolated Dragonkin colonies and the weakened Elf Kingdom of Aravia. His ships scoured the coastlines of any wealth and slaves they could carry, and easily overwhelmed those who tried to stop them. Yakarl sent home enough riches to forge a kingdom in the Winterlands that could have one day rivaled Aravia itself. But it was not to be.
Over his years of pillaging, Yakarl had left trusted jarls in control of his holdings. From their perspective, Yakarl was a wonderful king — his ships brought home great wealth, and he was not around to spend it or hold those responsible for it accountable. The jarls’ greed blossomed, as did their boredom with no enemy to fight. Families waged political wars instead for land, coin, and slaves, and when Yakarl finally returned, he found his realm buried in plots and discontent. Rivals challenged his rule, or attempted to break away to form their own fiefdoms. Yakarl was a great conqueror, but a poor politician, and a year after his return, he had failed to settle the myriad disputes and threats. He had never sought civil war, seeing disunity as a way to shatter his nascent realm, but he realized that to keep his crown, he had to turn his wrath against his own people.
Yakarl was furious but, deep down, he knew that his rage was a symptom of his despair. He had thought himself wiser and stronger than the fools who had marched off to die in the First Great War.
Desperate for a peaceful solution, Yakarl the Scourge approached his sages. Most were unable to help him, their words ambiguous, but one spoke of a power deep in the heart of the Winterlands that could grant him the might of the gods themselves. With such strength, he could unite his people once more. Yakarl gathered his most trusted huscarls and prepared an expedition inland. It meant leaving his territory unwatched once more, but he saw himself as having little choice. Besides, should this power be real, no challenge he faced upon his return would be insurmountable.
The expedition progressed well at first, but months of travel pushed Yakarl and his accompanying huscarls to the limit. One by one warriors perished, killed by rotten ice, falling into hidden crags, eaten by stalking beasts, or frozen. Yakarl saw his company melt away into the blizzards until he was all who remained. He was stronger than them all, and he marched on with pure grit and deep desperation driving him forward. Finally, he reached the shore of a pool of crystal clear water, steaming with heat even in the blistering cold. He thought he had come upon a footprint of a god. Instead, he had come upon one of their servants, who stood by the edge of the basin, as if waiting for him.
It was the Arbiter, though Yakarl did not know. Believing her an obstacle to the resource he had marched for so long to find, he challenged her to single combat, and she accepted. In the duel that followed, Yakarl was outclassed, despite all his ferocity and strength. After being disarmed and humiliated a dozen times, Yakarl yielded, asking only that she kill him quickly.
Instead, the Arbiter revealed to Yakarl who she was and offered him a choice. She said he had abandoned her and all of Teleria during the First Great War, choosing instead to murder and steal, while heroes died to protect the world. Either Yakarl could die in punishment for his selfishness, or he could repent. By serving the Arbiter for eternity, he could redeem himself. The Arbiter spoke more, of the lands devastated by Siroth’s hordes, of all the death and horror they had inflicted. She called Yakarl a coward for not doing his part, and for attacking the weak, and incompetent for the failure of his kingdom. Thoroughly ashamed, he pledged his ax to her.
Yakarl the Scourge Storyline
Clad in ornate armor of black steel, gold, and hoarfrost, Yakarl strides through the hurricane of battle like an ice giant of the Old Norr myths. He is a living legend himself, a Champion from the days when Norr raiders sailed across the ocean and struck terror into the hearts of all those unfortunate enough to attract their rapacious gaze. The runes tattooed upon his body and etched into the beard of his axe still glow with the vicious glory of those days, yet now he serves a higher power. Even as a young warrior, Yakarl was renowned for his strength, courage, and luck. He made a name for himself in daring forays across the coast of Aravia, razing and pillaging small settlements only to escape with rich plunder before the Elven forces rallied to retaliate. He earned the respect of his fellow warriors and soon enough led a small band of his own in even more brazen ventures that took him from the stormy Valdemar Strait to the rocky shores of Kaerok. The tales of Yakarl’s deeds spread, and his wealth grew over the years – as did his authority among the Norr. Yet that was not enough to sate his lust for fame. He desired nothing short of becoming a chieftain whose name would be hailed above all others. And so, when an old skald came traveling through his land, singing songs of an ancient weapon forged by the hand of Brimir himself, Yakarl took heed. He received the stranger with honor, calling for a feast in a show of ostentatious hospitality. And at the height of the festivities, when all his guests were drunk on fine mead and ale, Yakarl swore to travel northwards and recover the legendary Axe of Allwinter in a quest that would be celebrated for all time. Eight ships he outfitted to set sail, his bravest warriors by his side. Some counseled Yakarl to abandon this wild dream of his, or at least wait until next year – winter was coming, and the treacherous waters of the northern sea were soon to become nigh-impassable. But the chieftain remained implacable. He would not abandon his oath even in the face of grave danger, for that would bring dishonor beyond what he could bear. And so, the ships left the craggy haven of Yakarl’s home within a fortnight. Through storm and blizzard they sailed, fighting for their lives both against nature and the vicious monsters that dwelt in the North. One by one, Yakarl’s ships were lost, sunk or overrun, and yet he stayed his course. Even when the shimmering lights of the aurora shone high overhead and Yakarl’s vessel was the only one to survive, he refused to turn back. But with his crew diminished, he too began to lose hope. Too weakened to fight his way back through the frozen waters, his choice was simple – to succeed or to die trying. But even in that darkest hour, Yakarl’s fortune did not fail him. On the night of Yuletide, Yakarl stood alone on the prow of his ship, pondering over the cruelties of fate and the depth of his own hubris. The bitter cold held him immobile surer than any chain forged by mortal hands, and death seemed all but certain. Then, Yakarl heard a chime of bells that seemed to permeate his very spirit. It was a strange sound, one that made him think that he had gone mad at last. In truth, this chime heralded the arrival of their savior. To his astonishment, Yakarl saw the old skald who first told him the legend of the Axe, but now that skald rode a sleigh that soared above water, no longer clad in rags but in a gleaming armor and a vibrant cloak of crimson and white. No other than Sir Nicholas himself came to see the brave seafarers who had traveled this far and battled through countless dangers. He spoke to Yakarl in a voice booming like thunder and held aloft the Axe of Allwinter – the very prize which led the Norr chieftain into the jaws of death. It would be his, Nicholas proclaimed, for few possessed the will and determination to survive in these inhospitable lands. There was, however, a catch. Yakarl had to swear his life into the service of Goddess Lumaya and fight as her Champion against the forces of Darkness that threatened Teleria. Thus, the ancient warrior said, he would earn glory and fame beyond his wildest dreams. In a way, this was a dream come true. To wield a weapon of ancient might, to fight eternally against worthy foes, and be hailed a hero by mortals across the realms of mortals? Yakarl accepted without hesitation, and in a flash of blinding light Sir Nicholas bound his soul to one of Lumaya-given Shards. Thus imbued with the Goddess’ power and with his prize in hand, Yakarl led the survivors home. There, he divided his riches among them and chose a worthy successor to rule in his stead. With the duty to his people fulfilled, Yakarl left once more and sailed to the North where his new, eternal life awaited.