[@Regitnui] When I first saw your name, I thought it was Rigatoni 😂

[@gcold] What's the game plan now for our characters? Are we still waiting for more posts to come along, for example, a post to show the group being divided up for the next round of missions?

I present:

[hider=The Teeth of a Wolf]

	“Pa, why is our name different than other people?” The tiny voice of Lili broke the silence over their morning breakfast. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a swath of dark red hair over his forearms. Seated at his right hand sat Liliana, his youngest daughter, while Sevine sat adjacent to him on the left side. 

	“Why is it you ask, my dear?” He reclined back into the chair while his hands tore a loaf of bread in half.

	“I just noticed. We don’t have a last name like the others in the village. Why is it so funny? What does it mean? [i]Varg-t’uk[/i].” She uttered their surname as her face pulled into a twist, as if she drank sour milk. At her expression, both Sevine and Agnar couldn’t help but laugh.

	“It is a very old name. There are not many people in our country with a name like ours, that is true. But it is a proud name. When Ysgrammor settled our beautiful land, our ancestors came with him. My mind has forgotten much of the story, but I will tell you what I know.” A tender twinkle appeared in his eyes as he crossed an ankle over his knee.

	“When our forefathers landed in Skyrim, we came as a clan. Then, we were a bountiful and prosperous family. There were five brothers, though I remember the name of one, that is our grandfather that fathered my kin. His name was Torrik the Crooked, and he was a man of impressive height and girth. Tale tells that he could down two barrels of ale without succumbing to drunkenness…”

	“Our ancestors sailed across the Sea of Ghosts, and landed here in Skyrim. As tale has been told, the Varg-t’uk clan were fierce people, most of my kin is gone now, save for us, so I can only tell you what my grandfather told me. We were not yet named Varg-t’uk until Torrik the Crooked. In his day, he fought many a warrior, and drew many a circle. As such, he accumulated many scars, but his name comes from not his behaviour, but from his crooked nose. In one particular fight, his opponent, whose name is now long forgotten, smashed his nose with the pommel of his sword. The bone shattered into many pieces, and the healers of the day did their best to restore the bones to their original place. Alas, they could not, and so, Torrik’s face was left with a massive, crooked nose. The damage was so great, that his crooked nose gave his entire face a crooked disposition. But that is not why we are called Varg-t’uk.

	You see, Torrik lived to the lengthy age of seven and fifty. He died a well-respected man, though where he is buried, I can say not. When he was but nine and forty, Torrik left his wife, Helga, to hunt before the clutches of winter swept across the land. It was here that he earned his name. For whatever reason, he had a poor diet, or so my grandfather told me, and as such, he lost many of his teeth. Only his molars remained. You can imagine the wretched sight he must have been when he smiled.

	Now, Torrik was an exceptional hunter. He often carried a sword for fighting, and a bow for hunting. On this particular expedition into the wilderness, Torrik chose to leave behind his sword. An action that would nearly cost him his life. He hunted for days on end, most of the elk had migrated to their breeding grounds, making tracking especially difficult. That year’s harvest yielded little, and if he did not bring back meat, Helga and him would face starvation.” Agnar said.

	“Pa, why did not he ask his neighbors for help, if he were to go hungry?” Liliana asked, she rose from her chair, and climbed into her father’s lap.

	“That is a good question, my little flower. You see, in the early days of Skyrim, people were few, and Torrik was a prideful man. From the words of my grandfather, Torrik enjoyed his solitude, and so he chose to live far away from his kinsmen. He would not have accepted charity from his fellow neighbors, such is why he went hunting. 

	Now then, he spent nearly a week following the tracks of the elk, until he came upon an elk with a broken leg. The elk was too weak to continue on with the herd, and so he slaughtered the creature. When he made camp for the night, he gutted and skinned the elk. He quartered the animal so that he could carry it back on his steed. As such, he left it to dry. Torrik failed to anticipate that there would be wolves in the area, for most of the wolves had followed the herd.
 
	As he lay under the furs in his tent, Torrik was roused from his sleep by the sound of his horse braying. He rushed from his tent to find a wolf lunging at his steed. With a great and mighty bellow, he grabbed a burning log and swung it at the wolf. He struck the wolf, saving his horse from an untimely death, when the wolf turned on him. 

	Man and beast came together, fangs were bared and fists were swung. Each blow he landed upon the wolf, the wolf sank his fangs into his flesh. Blood soaked the ground, and Torrik began to grow weak. He could barely stand upon his own two feet, death seemed inevitable now. As he lingered on his knees, the wolf circled around him, waiting for the right time to attack. 

	When the wolf lunged at him, Torrik knew he had to give every last breath to fight off this beast before he left Helga without a husband. The wolf leaped, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl as it aimed for his throat. Kyne blessed Torrik that day. His hands flew to the throat of the wolf, where his massive hands closed around its windpipe. There, the wolf’s snapping jaw inches from his face, grew still as he strangled the very life out of the wolf. In minutes, the creature that had tried to kill him, lay limp at his feet. Torrik decided that he would not let the wolf go to waste, and in the morning, he carried home the elk he felled, and the wolf. 
When he returned home to Helga, they had enough meat to last them through the winter, and new pelts to sell. However, when he sat down to skin the wolf, he decided that he would wear the wolf’s teeth.”

	“As a necklace?” Lili asked, her fair brows furrowed at her father’s words.

	“Nay, he wore the wolf’s teeth as his own teeth. That is how we became Varg-t’uk. It means wolf tooth in Ancient Nord. When Torrik smiled, his teeth were the fangs of the very wolf that tried to kill him.” Agnar said with a chuckle, he ruffled her hair as he lifted Lili from his lap. “Now, help your sister with her chores, and if you finish early, I will take you to the village to-day.” [/hider]