Vran, son of Ingvar from the Black Wolves

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The river, like an enraged beast, threw Vran's body between the rocks, tearing off his skin, tearing his weapons from his hands. Cold water flooded his lungs, and the impacts with the boulders dulled his consciousness until the darkness swallowed him completely. The current carried him to a sandbank near a wooded bank, where he lay, silent and bloody, with broken ribs and a deep wound on his temple. The water washed the blood from the wounds, but could not wash away the proud expression from his face - even in unconsciousness, Vran looked as if he was ready to jump up and rush into battle again. The tree branches leaned over him like curious old women, rustling their leaves. The crows were already circling high above, sensing prey, but they did not dare to descend - the man still smelled too much of life, albeit barely flickering. The shield, broken into splinters, was stuck between the snags downstream, and the sword, his faithful companion, had disappeared forever into the depths. All that remained was a knife in his belt and a torn shirt, once the pride of the Black Wolves, now bloody rags. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the forest, the battle might still be going on. Perhaps his kin were looking for him, or perhaps they were already mourning him. But here, on this deserted shore, Raven the Reckless was completely alone.