In a world where magic is rare and gods often remain silent for thousands of years, miraculous events fade into the past and become legend, and legends become bedtime stories for young children. One such story warns of the folly of war and bloodshed, stating that those who kill will also be killed, rendering all for naught. Only evil itself will profit from it all, for the servants of the Flayed Twins are drawn by blood and death, appearing in the midst of great battles to finish the wounded on both sides, gaining strength with every drop spilt. Bloodrage fueling their senseless slaughter, the mythical blood hunters channel the vitae of their victims to their gods through the markings on thier armor. They are every warrior's nightmare. They are unstoppable. 

No one living has ever seen a hound of the Twins.... no one still living, that is. 

On this particular day, as the sun was beginning its descent from zenith, a small, red and black streak shot out from the forest along the river. The large, dog-like, clawed paws of its hind feet hardly touched the ground in its speed as it coursed directly for the front lines. Its eyes completely covered by a hood, scent alone directed the bloodseeker's blades. Age, gender, blood type, sickness, degree of fear and pain... Strygwyr could detect it all with a breath. He knew exactly who to attack, and who was next after him. His large, pointed teeth neatly meshed together in a grin, he pounced on his first victim with eager glee. "For the Twins!" He called in his particular accent as he smashed a bladed tonfa into the barbarian's back, knocking him down. 

The barbarians around him were completely caught off gard. No one had been expecting an attack from the rear. Quite tribal in appearance himself, the blood hunter looked nothing like the other wildlings. He was smaller, with lighter skin, and not to even mention his hind feet being paws. Also not much for clothing, he had a thickly feathered black hood, a mantle of leather and cloth covered in markings, a loincloth, and decorative bands and bracelets of bone, feathers, and teeth. Two large blades shielded him on either side along his forearms. Death was all the armor he needed. 

With a satisfied growl, he turned to the next sacrifice. Now splashed with blood, he was even stronger. A faint glow seemed to come from his eyes from underneath his hood, and he moved as if possessed. Mercilessly, he launched at the slowest of the barbarians around him. They didn't know what to do with him. He was so fast, and he cut anyone around him. One of the barbarians gasped in horror, seemingly recognizing the strange creature, and shouted something that sounded like a warning to the rest. Most of them were oblivious, too engaged in the battle with the soldiers of the fortress, dodging arrows, or trying to climb the north wall. A few, made haste to relocate themselves, muttering in confusion. As the second barbarian dropped to one knee, bleeding and loosing to his unexpected enemy, a small clearing began to develop around them. Strygwyr opened his jaws, almost panting, and stood up. Not far from him, the North gate was getting crowded. He sniffed the air deeply as a new scent filled his lungs. ...poison, blood tainted with chemicals, melting flesh... Pain. As the barbarian before him died, his heart giving out, Strygwyr left toward the source of the agony and strongest scent of blood. 

He stopped before the circle of melted flesh and let out a wolfish growl. It was too late. Everything here was already dead. Still, he smiled. The blood of those who had impaled themselves on spears after going under the still-open north gate was calling to him. "So much blood." He said to himself as he flew in that direction. 

Dive-rolling under the gate, Strygwyr had the advantage of surprise, which he made full use of. Starting with the weak, he began killing relentlessly. His own wounds didn't seem to stop him, nor did even a strong bash to the flank with a heavy mace do more than knock him aside before he bounced back. The beast was wild and inhuman. At first, it seemed as if he might have been some great or enchanted warrior from a rival tribe, who might have come to kill the invaders, or just happened to be at the fortress at the time of the attack, then suddenly, he ran up a set of stone stairs and began attacking infantry men as well. No, there was no discretion. He was a fury warrior gone berserk, and he was going to kill everyone.