Tristan Úlfarsson - Printable Version +- The First Age (https://thefirstage.org/forums) +-- Forum: News & Discussion (https://thefirstage.org/forums/forum-3.html) +--- Forum: Biographies & Backstory (https://thefirstage.org/forums/forum-10.html) +--- Thread: Tristan Úlfarsson (/thread-1020.html)

Tristan Úlfarsson - Tristan - 10-03-2018 The westfjords were draped with the heavy blanket of night as a young man pushed his way upslope. The snow made for a white carpet, but the path was already packed down by other feet previously trod. Lights glowed from the house ahead, nestled against the rocks of a steep cliff behind. Tristan adjusted the pack on his shoulders and willed the strength in his legs to hold a little while longer. It was a long walk from where the vehicle dropped him off in yonder village, and while horses could navigate the narrow paths, vehicles could not. As he neared the tiny building, barking preceded the opening of its portal.  The silhouette of a man appeared within, and leaping from around his legs, a hulky dog bound outside, racing to Tristan and sniffing happily at his knees. The man himself followed, stomping down the path and grumbling to himself about the hour. He snagged Tristan’s pack with one massive paw of a hand, tossed it upon his own shoulders and mumbled a greeting. “Boy, you’ll be the death of me.” Úlfar’s gruff voice growled. Tristan smiled at the dark and followed Úlfar to the house. Warmth immediately pooled water underfoot as he entered. Tristan left boots and outerwear near the stove and sealed them both within. His things were dumped at the foot of a sofa. He turned in a circle to take it in. Everything was just as he remembered it. His smile grew bigger. He’d thought about this day for a year, finally working up the nerve to abandon everything in Reykjavík and come home. The city squeezed his soul. In the westfjords, he was free. “Here,” Úlfar thrust a mug into trembling hands. Tristan greedily guzzled the warm liquid. Socks padded quietly to the sofa. The rug underfoot was warmed by a nearby stove. Úlfar strolled lazily behind. Siggi, his beautifully furry black and white malamute, circled and ultimately laid herself at Tristan’s feet. She’d recognized Tristan scent before the door even opened. “Thanks,” he swiped his sleeve along his mouth. Cheeks frozen by snow, his sleeve came away wet. Beards weren’t allowed by the strict rules of the boarding house. Tristan couldn’t wait to let his fill in like his grandfather’s epic growth. Úlfar grunted as he sank into a rocker. The two silently measured one another meanwhile. The creak of the chair the only sound between them. Except maybe for the thudding of Siggi’s tail happily wagging against his leg. Tristan couldn’t help but smile. The old hound (Úlfar; not Siggi, she was barely grown) was as unimpressed as ever. Better yet, he looked exactly the same. It’d been near a year this time, but it was like the man barely aged. Or perhaps was frozen permanently in his late 60’s. Gray wove through his ashen hair much like the white in Siggi’s fur. “What are you doing here, boy? Aren’t you suppos’t to be in school?” A tightness gripped his chest as Tristan stammered his best answer. “Grandfather, I-“ “That bad, eh?” Úlfar interrupted, scraggly hair wagging in the motion. He rubbed at the curl of his beard, sharp eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits. A moment later, he took to his feet. Still seated, Tristan felt diminutive beneath the looming hulk of his grandfather’s shadow. “You know your way around. Douse the lights before you sleep. See you in the morning. Come Siggi.” The dog looked up curiously, but when he made no motion to follow after his master, Úlfar disappeared to the bedroom unaccompanied. Tristan was left to sleep on the couch. A long exhale escaped; one he hadn’t realized was bound so painfully in his chest until just then. The sudden relief loosened the bindings collared around his heart. He’d feared terribly for his grandfather’s angry response. The man had a foul temper, though thankfully had never turned it against Tristan. Mostly, anyway. Exhausted from the long day’s travel, Tristan collapsed onto the sofa without so much as changing clothes. For the first time in months, the rest that followed was peaceful. His dreams of late had been wracked with tormented running. Something chasing him that he could never quite glimpse. Eighteen-year-old Tristan worked like a dog (pun intended) on his grandfather’s farm the next two weeks. They tended to sheep and goats; hauled fishing lines, harvested the meager crops. Úlfar never confronted him about the escape from the city where orphaned boys were caged inside boarding schools. Although they both knew the conversation would resurrect eventually, Tristan hoarded the days while he could. Such was the life of many families peppering the remote highlands of Iceland’s countryside; especially the Westfjords. The western-most point of Europe was the most isolated, and a lone lighthouse was the only symbol of civilization overlooking the North Atlantic sea. Villages were few and far between, schools less so. Many lived in the boarding institutions that populated the larger towns (of which, there was really only one option). Out here in the Westfjords, where the icy sea met enormous stone cliffs reachable only by the most tenacious of souls, children’s education was either solely remote or solely online. Most of the time the difference depended on internet access. Grandfather’s small homestead had no such connection. It barely had electricity; it ran on a solar-generator. Tristan recalled the earliest years of his childhood when Úlfar announced the future lifestyle to which he would grow accustomed. Annually, the summer months were far too short, and Tristan dreaded departure to Reykjavík. Nothing awaited him that he specifically anguished in anticipation, though. A boy for whom his parents were dead by cruel twists of fate and the evil spirit that took up residence in his father (whose name Úlfar forbade be spoken) could want for nothing better. Grandmother was departed before his birth. A father imprisoned and executed for crimes so rarely committed on the island nation that it sparked national news. Tristan was lucky to have a remaining family member that sheltered and cared for him. An education, connection to friends, support and medicine were luxuries that some others were not afforded. Yet... when night came and Tristan huddled blankets close to his chin, he drifted far from cobble-stone streets and bustling lives. His soul was drawn to the wide-open sky, needing to dance as nimbly as the aurora glowing overhead. Raw, untamed nature beckoned him home. He often stood on high sea-cliffs, peering into the blue horizon, yearning for what roamed the other side. He was patient, though. Counting down the days until warmer months promised a return to wild freedom. Until this year, anyway. He couldn’t wait for summer. Then the dreams started. Running. Running. Running. Something chasing him down. He wanted to be caught, but if he stopped running, the pursuit ceased. And so he ran. From highway to grass. From stone-peppered hills to black lava mountains. From pink-hued beaches to the steaming blue lagoons of Reykjanes. From the striking profile of Mount Kirkjufell to the mighty glacial fields of arctic Myrdalsjokull. Weaving past tussock meadows, willow and birch groves and the ancient features of Ice Age cliffs, Tristan ran, sometimes making great leaps in single steps. Freedom like never before. Peace. Contentment. But alone. Always alone. Miles from the house, he was exploring the cliffs of the westfjords landscape. Jagged and jutting like fingers of rock and stone standing sentry just as they had when their forefathers the Vikings landed ashore, the treeless, barren landscape spread wide like this was the place where heaven dipped low enough to touch the earth.  It was otherworldly. Even the light of the arctic sky seemed thin and sparse. It wouldn’t be long before darkness settled again, but Tristan was confident he’d be home before sunset. From here he could smell the mist of a cold sea crashing. A troop of reindeer pounded in the far distance, that if he put his hand to his eyes and focused, he could make out their numbers. It was perfect. Despite what his grandfather said, he would never return to the city. This was home. He was home. And it was time to return to the house. The miles passed not so easily as they did in his dreams where effortless steps carried him massive spans. He was panting with the exertion, navigating lumps of rock and jagged stone edges when his foot caught one unexpectedly. Tristan yelped as he dropped forward, palms catching on the frozen ground. Luckily, Úlfar wasn’t around to see the stumble. Likely his grandfather would have something to say about gangly pups tripping on their own ears. What did he trip on, anyway? He twisted to look, face tilted curiously this way and that. Gloves brushed away the snow only to uncover an unnaturally smooth stone slab. Words worn by decades of weather etched across the top. Older writings rimmed the rest. The engravings were what held his rapt attention. But not words; names. A headstone. The long list of his family’s names populated his mind. Úlfar did not smother the past; rather, he etched their ancient roots into his only grandson as sure as the words upon that stone. Only one name passed like ghosts haunting the shore: his father’s name was forbidden to utter. An omen. A curse. Evil. Such was why Tristan adopted his grandfather’s for a patronym. Therefore, as Tristan knelt in the snow, fingers tracing line after line, he couldn’t fathom the significance of the find. The odds of stumbling across this hidden message were enormous. Yet there there it was; undeniable. Confusion shredded his mind. Questions scattered like stones skipping over icy lakes. The man who raised him? A home wound tight as skin. What did it mean? Was it all a sham? He snapped a picture of the stone, only to slip in the snow as he scrambled frantically away. Only one other being saw the tears welling crystals his eyes, though it would be many years before Tristan realized he wasn’t alone out there after all. He burst into the house, Úlfar sat in the rocker, curtains drawn. “Close the damn door, boy.” He growled. Tristan obeyed, but the limits of his obedience snapped like frayed rope. The house felt emptier, colder despite the sun drenching from on high overhead.   “You told me my father murdered my mother. You told me he died in a prison on the mainland.” The rocking chair ceased its creaking rhythm. Úlfar unfurled as he came to his feet. Even an old man, he was imposing. As solid as a rock, and as wide as a mountain. His eyes glossed sharp. “Do not speak his name,” he hissed like the very memory of his son was an abomination. Tristan’s heart pound defiantly. “I found the marker, grandfather.” He pulled the picture of the hill overlooking the watery inlet, widening it for his grandfather to see what was written therein. A family tree. Lines criss-crossing. His mother’s name appeared; his father’s alongside. But Úlfar was no where to be seen. Here lies Rurik Grímsson slain on this spot by his own brother. “Your father’s name was Grímur. Grandfather, was Rurik your brother?” They both stared at the picture in disbelief. Tristan’s frown could not capture the betrayal that shackled his heart. But there was one thing the image captured that Tristan hadn’t noticed before. A purple smear of light, like a reflection of something or a trick of the camera flared the edge of the image, hovering above the stone. There wasn’t time to contemplate it. “Did you kill him? Did you kill my father?” Úlfar’s nose flared wide in snorting anger. It was apparent that Úlfar hadn’t laid that headstone, but the truth was revealed anyway. Úlfar’s anger confirmed it, and Tristan knew. Grandfather’s hackles raised. Or maybe his Uncle? He couldn’t think... Lips snarled. Teeth bared. He fixed Tristan in his sights and lunged. “I TOLD YOU DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME.” Tristan yelled. The old man was a bear, solid and everlasting as the mountain itself. He flew through the air. Back slammed on the floor. Head cracked. He moaned. Cried, fought off the man he loved as a surrogate father. But Úlfar was too strong. Why would he do this? He didn’t understand! Weren’t they family? Wasn’t he loved? This was home! Outside, Siggi scraped and dug at the door that rocked on its hinges. Snarls and barking snapped Tristan’s ears. Heavy latches secured it from inside. None could get in. Howls stuffed his ears ferocious. But the world was growing dim. His body limp. He wanted to give up just pray it stopped soon. Then the locks failed and the door flung open. Impossible! With the drenching of sunshine came a flash of purple light. He squeezed his eyes tight, afraid to watch. Siggi burst inside. Úlfar ran from the hound’s snarling lunges. Tristan watched for as long as he could until darkness draped his mind like a blanket, and he saw no more. No dreams awaited this time. Warmth nestled against him, Tristan woke to every muscle aching in his body. Siggi lifted her head, ears turned forward, relieved to find Tristan awake. Her wet nose nuzzled his cheek happily. Tristan put a hand to throbbing head, but he seemed to be relatively in one piece. Siggi moped alongside as he stumbled to the door. Sunshine streamed across the western horizon toward setting, the same direction downhill, toward the westfjord where Tristan found the headstone. There was enough light yet to see. Maybe an hour elapsed? He found his breath and called out warily, “Grandfather?” but his call was swallowed by the slopes. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Like the world held its breath. Siggi rushed by him then, swarming to a rock pillar half way down the slope that Tristan didn’t remember existing. Where did that come from? He licked his lips and braved outdoors to find out. He was half-way there when a mournful howl broke the disturbing silence that Tristan once found so welcoming. It chilled him to the bone. Siggi laid herself at the foot of the pillar, whimpering and pawing at it. Tristan frowned and forced himself to follow. Where did the pillar come from? How could a six foot stone just appear? Where was grandfather? He grew uncomfortably nervous as he approached. Siggi’s howling cry continued. He circled to look upon the face of it. But he didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to know any more truths. He just stared dumbfounded at the ridges and planes of a stony face. Logic and reason made no room for understanding, but disbelief could not be denied. He looked all around, hoping for some witness to this madness. Omens and curses. Ghosts and wind. Purple lights? Siggi’s howling grew to crescendo. But there was nothing. No one. Or so he thought. Shaking hands retrieved the picture of the headstone. When his eyes fell upon the empty stone, he found it blank. Erased. The purple flare gone. Like it never existed. Just a plain stone. He sank to his knees in despair. That was 14 years ago. It was a frosty spring morning when Tristan buried Siggi’s remains alongside the stone that was not a headstone. It seemed fitting that the only other creature that Tristan really loved take her eternal rest alongside such a fateful location. Not only that, but the spot was absolutely beautiful. And maybe she wasn’t the only thing he ever loved, given that he still looked back upon his childhood under Úlfar’s parentage fondly. It was like he clung to the fantasy of childhood memories because the reality of adulthood was too much to grieve for its loss. The old girl lived a long time. She breathed her last, raspy breath snuggled up on his lap. Úlfar’s house was Tristan’s now. The belongings within inherited, but there was nothing buried in the rubbage that indicated Úlfar’s blood relationship with Rurik, nor did any of the villagers brave to speak on the matter. The headstone never reappeared, though, and eventually Tristan gave up the search for understanding. The pillar of his grandfather’s petrified shape remained, standing tall like a guardian warding away trespassers. Not that anyone came out here. A rather ironic fate for such a useless lump. Given that the writings on the headstone never reappeared, Tristan grew accustom to the amorphous form that was his grandfather’s stone imprisonment. Sometimes he’d glimpse at the area of a face and see a clear profile. Other times it was only another rock. Sometimes he sat at the foot of it and read books aloud, though his grandfather, always so practical, was disinterested in fantasy stories. He was seated alongside Siggi’s fresh grave, watching the water far below, when Tristan finally hung his head and mourned. All the questions about his parents, Úlfar, and what happened between them bubbled to the surface. He was drowning in them when a beam of purple flickered on the edge of his senses. He almost jumped out of his skin when a soft voice spoke: “There, there.” He scrambled as gracelessly as he had the first time the stone appeared to him. Tripping over himself, falling and slipping on the slope. When he twisted around, he beheld something impossible. Except, the impossible was becoming more and more possible these days. A woman sat there. She was clothed all in heavy gray attire. Her long hair was black as lava rock spilling over slender shoulders. She had the face of an angel: cheekbones slanted high, the point of a nose perfectly poised above narrow lips. Her eyes were pale as the sea on a cloudy day. She just sat there, hands folded in her lap. A sadness emanated from her that made Tristan want to try and chase it away. His jaw dropped, speechless. She trailed fingers along the fresh grave soothingly. But the movement seemed to rend a purple trail in the air, like subtle fog disturbed by the motion. A color he hadn’t seen in 14 years. “I am sorry about Siggi. She was such a sweet pup. I remember the day your uncle brought her home.” Tristan stammered. She was so elegant and graceful, he felt utterly trollish in comparison what with a scraggly beard and braided hair. His clothes were worn hand-me-downs. A worker’s appearance. He didn’t often shower. Hot water was difficult to come by and when a man kept more company with sheep and horses than other people, it seemed a waste. Foolishness crept into his stomach, both of being frightened and of the reaction to her presentation. Tristan composed himself quickly and climbed back to his spot, wiping his palms on his pants as he did. “How did you know her name?” he asked. “Just like I know your name, Tristan. Rurik’s name. And Úlfar. Him who came before; he before that. All the long way back to the beginning.”  She turned to grasp his face in his cheeks. He flinched but did not retreat from her chilly touch. Her eyes peered deep into his. What she saw made her smile, for that Tristan could sustain a lifetime’s contentment. “I know your True Name, too.” “What is it?” He asked. Heart eager to learn. “That is for you to find.” She replied with the tip of a shoulder. He sighed. “Where?” She gathered herself to take to her feet. As she began to walk toward a rock cropping, she turned to regard him one last time. “Stop running in the dream and you will be found. Look to far shores and you will find your true family. Return to the beginning and the end will finally arrive.” She bowed her head and slipped behind the rock face. Tristan chased after but found her gone. The next week he built a new door from the best wood furniture in the house. He painted it red, laid seastones into the face of it, and wedged it into the rockface. As soon it was tapped into place, a wind lifted, carrying with it the petals of a spring flower from some far distant slope. A gift of gratitude. “Thank you,” he told her, putting the flower to his nose.  Though it was likely he’d never see her again, he smiled anyway. Because even if he couldn’t see her, she was there; the Huldufólk always were. That night he stopped running in the dream. To his amazement, someone finally appeared. ..to be continued. ABOUT Age: 32 Home: Westfjords, Iceland. The nearest town of Ísafjörður is only a few thousand people. As such, he “lived” in Reykjavík (capital of Iceland) most of the year in boarding school until dropping out before completing his final year at age 18. His present abode is an isolated, rural homestead that had been in his family multiple generations. The nearest village is only a few hundred people in size and a half-day’s walk by horse & cart. Personality: Tristan is outwardly rough around the edges but is actually quite a reasonable and content individual within. He wrestles with identity, as many orphans are prone to do. Most divisive within himself is reconciliation with his grandfather’s final acts. Sometimes he wakes in a cold sweat, fearing petrified hands squeezing down on his throat. The lack of understanding makes him compartmentalize his life. Almost as if his grandfather’s existence was a fabricated memory. Sometimes he ponders his own sanity, but has a gentle acceptance of current reality. He wars with loneliness within himself, but prefers isolation rather than social interaction. In school, he was lively and fun. Brave to the point of reckless. But the bonds that formed were shallow. The city was stifling and he yearned for open air. The war within is constant, but he does not act to change. Once his mind is settled, however, he is stubborn to adhere to the newly arrived resolution. Most of all, he knows something is missing. The dreams call him to answers. The Huldufólk woman was his only key to discovery and his quest for answers has been reinvigorated. For her guidance, he constantly cares for her invisible home. He takes her food, left behind like a sacrifice, for instance. Waits for the day that she will reappear. The petrified pillar permanently poised outside the house both comforts and terrifies him. Yet he cannot bring himself to disturb it even if he could shift the massive stone. Something he glances side-long, also awaiting the day of Úlfar’s reanimation.   Appearance: Tristan is a hulking male of 6’2” taken after the appearance of his grandfather (Uncle) (probably his father if he knew what he looked like). Blonde hair and (formerly) light eyes. He wears a heavy beard and side-shaves much of his scalp except for the worn down the center of his head. His skin is leathery, toughened by a lifetime working in the elements. Thickly built, his strength derives from necessity of a rugged lifestyle rather than inflated, fluffy muscles of urban gym-dwellers. He loves the sea and is a strong swimmer. Curiously, he is an avid bird-watcher and can identify the species from a great distance. His eyesight has always been sharp. Due to the sheer nature of an isolated lifestyle, he devours books and loves to read (mostly fiction). Rebirth: In his past life, he was Fenrisúlfr, also called Fenrir, the great wolf who devoured Odin in Ragnarök. It was foretold that he would do as much at his birth, and so the gods were filled with great fear for what Fenrir would someday become. They imprisoned him within their own watchful stronghold rather than banishment as they imposed upon his siblings. Only the god, Tyr was brave enough to forge a tentative friendship with Fenrir, and using that trust, tricked him into being chained indefinitely. The betrayal cost Tyr a limb that Fenrir was in his rights to claim although the violent act fueled already-inflated perception of his ferocity. His sheer size and appearance added to that perception. In the end, the measures were all for naught. Fenrir broke free in the chaos of the final war, Ragnarök, and slaughtered Odin anyway. Avenging his father’s life, Odin’s son Víðarr, killed Fenrir in return. His is a story of pre-destination. Of the sins of the father being passed to the son. And fear for the unknown and what the future may hold. Is the monster born? Or the monster created? MYTHOS Huldufólk – the Hidden Folk of Iceland. They appear to humans only when they chose to do so but appear much the same as any human. They live in the earth behind rock formations and many bad omens may happen upon those that disturb their residences. As such, even the laying down of new roads in Iceland requires consultation with a Huldufólk-expert and alms paid to secure their blessing during construction. It is considered disrespectful to refer to them by their real-name: álfar (elves). The gray woman is Huldufólk. Trolls - In Old Norse sources, trolls are said to dwell in isolated mountains, rocks, and caves, sometimes live together (usually as father-and-daughter or mother-and-son), and are rarely described as helpful or friendly. However, trolls are also attested as looking much the same as human beings, without any particularly hideous appearance about them, but living far away from human habitation. They dislike sunlight and can be turned to stone upon certain conditions of contact with bright light. They are the morbid enemies of wolves. Úlfar was a troll.