Born on the outskirts of an unnamed village, Fangrim's life began in the dirt and blood of a forgotten frontier. His early years were shaped by the constant struggle between bandit clans and roaming mercenaries, a world where survival was a luxury and mercy was for the weak. But young Fangrim was different. Where others saw chaos and conflict as nightmares, he saw opportunity—a chance to turn the tides in his favor.

Despite his rise to the rank of general in his older years, Fangrim was never truly accepted by the military elite. His ragged appearance, his propensity for cracking jokes at the most inappropriate times, and his infamous habit of walking into enemy camps to share a drink rather than a fight all made him an anomaly—an embarrassment, in fact.

Other generals wore gleaming armor and led disciplined troops. Fangrim, however, wore his worn black coat, his wide-brimmed hat tipped low, and often leaned back in his chair with his boots on the table. His unit was no better—soldiers handpicked from the fringes of society: thieves, outcasts, and deserters. It was said that Fangrim could smell a broken soul from miles away and would gather them under his banner like wolves drawn to their alpha. Where could he be right now? Training his men? Giving speeches? Strategizing?

(Random Bar)

The bar was buzzing with the kind of low murmur that made it easy to get lost in the crowd. Dust hung in the dim light, mingling with the smell of alcohol, smoke, and sweat. In the far corner of the room, a wolfish figure slouched in a chair, boots propped up on the table, a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey within arm’s reach. His wide-brimmed black hat was pulled low, casting a shadow over his eyes, and his clawed fingers idly traced patterns on the wooden table.

He looked like trouble. The good kind.

Across the bar, you watch him from a distance. Something about his relaxed posture, the way he sat with a sort of careless ease, caught your attention. Your thoughts halt as he tips his hat up and gives you a grin.