Beorn

From BelegarthWiki

Fighter Information

Name: Beorn
Pronouns: He/Him
Race: Dwarf Werebear
Realm: Westrot
Units: Mictlán, Engineering Core
Fighting Styles:

  • Two-Handed Warhammer
  • Sword and Board
  • Hoplite with Downstick

Fighting Since: August 2023
Events Attended:

Titles:

Lore

Backstory (The serious bits)

Beorn did not choose to become a Werebear. Within the stronghold Kaldr Steinn, Beorn was born to Randolf Williamson, head of the Sterkr Clan. Beorn’s father was a powerful warrior and carried within him a great power: the spirit of the bear which allowed transformation in battle, harnessing his rage into an unstoppable mass of teeth, fur, and claws. This power was passed onto Beorn, as it was to all children of the Sterkr Clan, and he spent much of his youth training with his father on how to use it.

Among his clan, Beorn was sure that the bear spirit within him must be weaker than the others’. He couldn’t reach the pure, unbridled ferocity nor strength the rest of his clan could. He couldn’t heave as them, strike as them, and certainly couldn’t roar as they could. In fact, the more Beorn heard the roars of his clan-mates, the quieter his bear became.


Through his youth, Beorn spent much time in the stronghold’s library, reading tales of distant lands, strange places, and strange people. Everything outside the stronghold seemed so distant, but he yearned to see it all. The rest of his clan cared little for what they called unimportant matters. Their focus was on battle and becoming better warriors, and commanded Beorn to conduct himself thus.

As Beorn approached his fiftieth birthday, he knew the time would soon come where he had to decide his place among the stronghold, among his clan. Beorn always planned to simply become a part of the warrior ranks with his clan, for what else had he known? Yet still, the land outside Kaldr Steinn called to him, and he wanted to see it more than anything. He’d lived in the stronghold for so long now and felt he couldn’t bear to stay another minute, let alone the rest of his life. So Beorn made a proposal: at his fiftieth birthday, he would venture out of Kaldr Steinn and go see the distant lands he longed for, train to become the warrior his clan always wanted him to be, and return on his sixtieth birthday to join the ranks of his fellow warriors. His clan begrudgingly accepted Beorn’s approval, hoping that time away from the stronghold might finally shape him into the warrior they wanted him to be.

And so, Beorn left. As he stepped out of the stronghold, Beorn had to narrow his eyes at the bright object in the sky. The land around him was a vast green field, the likes of which didn’t exist in the stronghold. Even as Beorn knew he was now free to explore wherever he so chose, he felt directionless. He wasn’t quite sure where to go, so he simply wandered and wandered. Over the mountains, through the trees, and across great stony valleys.


Off in the distance, a small village came into view. Beorn made his way to the town and found it inhabited by humans. Though humans were notably part of Sterkr’s Big Book of Grudges, Beorn became acquainted with them and lodged with them for some time. The village was home to a number of fighters that Beorn agreed to duel.

The first fighter Beorn was to duel was a young swordsman named Caspar. When the fight began, Beorn prepared to fight the way he’d been taught, and he transformed into his hybrid bear form. He lumbered over Caspar, who quaked in fear at the sight before him. Beorn, now under the spell of his form, tore into Caspar, maiming the boy and just about ripping him to shreds.

As Beorn receded into his regular form, it dawned upon him what he had done. But before he could apologize for this deed, the rest of the village’s fighters descended upon him, weapons of silver in hand. “Fowl beast!” they called, “perish monster!” they cried. And so, the dwarf ran, a million thoughts racing in his mind, and guilt digging its roots into him.

Beorn camped in the woods for weeks, not daring to show his face amid another village. And as he camped, the spirit of the bear raged inside him, begging to be let out. His transformations became involuntary, triggered randomly by moonlight, scent of blood, or mere mild frustration.

Months passed and Beorn couldn’t keep the bear under control. He’d transform and wander the woods, and eventually realized he was steadily making his way towards the nearest city.

Beorn knew that if he reached the city and transformed, he’d cause such wanton destruction before being put down by that city’s warriors. He could’ve returned to the stronghold, but he knew he’d spend the rest of his days in shame, forever known as the dwarf who left the stronghold and within a year fled back with his tail between his legs.

He began to lose hope. Were his choices really just to be put down by monster hunters or live forever as a disgraced warrior? A third option came to Beorn. A way to escape both fates and finally be rid of the wretched bear inside him. He took a shovel and a pick and entered the nearest cave. He began to dig, and dig, and dig, and dig. He dug for many moons, he mined for many suns, though both were once again hidden behind layers of dirt and stone. His stamina began to run thin, his arms growing weak and his eyes heavy. Exhaustion seeped from his pores and strained gasps echoed from his bearded jaw.

Beorn’s mind went blank, and a creeping darkness began to encompass his eyes. With one final swing, he smashed through a cave wall and collapsed. He was certain he wouldn’t awake from this slumber, and that the bear would remain in an eternal hibernation.

But Beorn awoke, finding that his heart still beat, his lungs still heaved, and his eyes still saw. And what they saw Beorn almost couldn’t believe was real. A subterranean city, of impossible architecture, constructed of gold, turquoise, and limestone. This place was inhabited by an army of powerful warriors, both dead and alive, who called this place Mictlán. It was every dwarf’s dream, and it would become Beorn’s. But not because of gold nor combat. Among the ranks of city’s warriors were monsters, who lived in harmony with its people, unashamed of their bestial forms.

Among these folks, Beorn found that when his hybrid bear form manifested himself, he was more than welcome to eat, drink, and spar with them. And the other warriors of Mictlán didn’t shame him for what his form could or could not do. Beorn began to embrace the spirit within, and when he transformed, found he had the lucidity and control he’d craved for years. The line between dwarf and bear began to blur, as Beorn slowly realized that like it or not, the bear was a part of him. And with some guidance, he could learn to live in harmony with this aspect of himself. To reap the advantages of what the bear offered him but not letting it control him completely.

Beorn followed the warriors of Mictlán into battle, led by a troll of the name Metztli. The troll stood shorter than most, with turquoise skin and short tusks. His face was scarred and covered with war paint. In fields of battle, the troll rallied his troops so, and instilled Beorn with a will to fight he’d never felt before.

But more impressive than Metztli’s prowess in battle was his leadership in camp and in the mead halls. Despite his brutish appearance, this troll had a heart of gold. Warriors and travelers from far-off lands were all welcomed by Metztli just as Beorn was. And so Beorn settled in with this new crowd, becoming ingrained into this strange but wonderful new culture.

As Beorn explored the world with his new Realm, he fought more battles and gained new companions. The allies he gained in his travels were of the types his Clan’s Book of Grudges would’ve forbade him commune with: elves, fae, ogres, goblins, all those deemed inferior by Sterkr but quickly becoming Beorn’s most trusted compatriots.


Many warriors fought under the flag of Mictlán, and Metztli paid close attention to those that ate, drank, and fought alongside him. A chosen few among these warriors were invited to be honored as Zanno. They would become his most honored and loyal members and become the pillars of the Realm. Beorn was the first to accept his invitation, and vowed to undergo trials of camaraderie, combat, and scholarship.

And even as Beorn has become ingrained within his new environment, he has not yet forgotten the promise he made to his clan. With his 60th birthday steadily approaching, Beorn knows it is only a matter of time before he must decide what his future will look like.

Character Story (The less serious bits)
The Goblins of Westrot

Perhaps the strangest but most loyal of Beorn’s companions are the Westrot Goblin clan, led by their fearless chief Leaf the Goblyn. Among their ranks are fighters that, while lacking in experience, have no shortage of ferocity and nimbleness. Beorn was travelling alone through a thick marsh. His boots were damp and a long journey had begun to slow his pace. But before Beorn could exit the swampy marsh and make camp for the night in a more welcoming environment, he heard a twig snap behind a tree. He quickly reeled around and drew the greatsword lended to him by the blacksmith Schmitt, a fellow dwarf.

He waited and watched the woods carefully, the sight and scent of his onlookers hidden by dense moss and swamp gas. That’s when a cry rang out throughout the woods “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!”

From all directions charged tiny little green guys, swords in hands ready to rob Beorn of everything he had.

Quickly locking in, Beorn assessed his foes, their speed, and their strategy.

The first goblin, the brave leader of the pack, leapt off a stone and hurled himself directly at Beorn’s chest. Beorn lept back and with a downward blow, slammed the goblin to the ground, leaving him dazed just long enough for Beorn to focus the rest of the clan.

Beorn turned his head to see three goblins charging at his back. Turning and cleaving his swords, he sent all of them scrambling for cover. The next foe proved another threat entirely. A brutish ogre stood lumbering over Beorn, ready to crush him flat. Beorn rushed the brute’s legs, maiming before delivering a final blow to his back.

Beorn’s quick strikes proved little effective against the next opponent. The smallest goblin was quick, nimble, and dodged the dwarf’s sword with ease. The gap was quickly closed, and the fight only ended when Beorn struck him with the flat of his blade at the very last moment.

Two stout hobgoblins, each carrying two jagged blades, attempted to surround Beorn and rip at him from both ends. Beorn swung his sword round, knocking the swords from the hands of the rear hobgoblin and striking the chestplate of the one in front.

The dwarf attempted to catch his breath, believing the fight to be over. A fear washed over him as the goblin chief chanted a spell in a language unknown to Beorn. The goblins began to rise once more, their wounds closing shut and a renewed vigor filling their battle-hungry muscles. Beorn quickly made a tactical retreat, gaining just enough ground to collect himself and prepare for round two.

Left with no choice, Beorn entered his hybrid form, unleashing the bear upon the green-skinned raiders. Most cowered before his monstrous form, but the goblin chief was unfazed. Gripping his daggers in reverse grip (the most effective fighting technique), he ran full-sprint at the werebear, knocking the sword out of the way and clashing with Beorn’s teeth and claws.

Bear ripped into goblin, goblin stabbed into bear, until both fighters were too wounded to continue fighting. Though the rest of the clan could’ve ended the fight then and there, the chief ordered them to stand down. Instead, the chief would meet Beorn again the following day and duel until a victor was decided.

After the goblins dispersed, Beorn was finally able to make camp for the night and rest. The next day, Beorn met the goblin chief at a small clearing in the swamp, surrounded by stones where the rest of the clan watched.

The chief watched Beorn carefully, the leather grips of his jagged knives held tight in his green fingers. Beorn held his sword forward, keeping the tip locked onto his adversary.

The chief’s husband Gribble yelled for the fight to begin, and the fighters rushed at each other with unbridled ferocity. They traded blows and hacked at each other until a winner was decided. But neither fighter was satisfied, so they fought again, and again, and again, until, after a hundred duels, no one was quite sure who the true victor was.

The two fighters dropped their weapons and shook bloodied hands. Impressed by each others’ strength, they agreed to train and fight another day.

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