Born as the children of exiles, Wulf was raised as a knight without a homeland, a hunter of sorcerers, a warrior without a home, a sword and defender of a people that existed only in legend. For most of his youth, Wulf was raised in that tradition, conducting archaic rituals with no clear meaning, clinging to scraps of illegible parchment, and chanting in long-forgotten tongues mirthless prayers to a lost god. He was fed toxic plants to build resistance to it, injected with diluted venom, and made to drink horrifying concoctions that sent him into a coma. All this, it was claimed, was to make him a warrior who could hunt and kill mages. His people, so it was claimed, had once ruled over the now blighted north, and now lived scattered in small villages and towns along the still arable land that lay between the Ixchel Wilds and the Blightlands, driven out, it was said, by the dark forces of magic.

For two decades Wulf lived the legend. He and his kin roamed from village to village, taking their due as lords and delivering justice and protection, fighting off wild beasts, roving orc bands, bandits and undead. Every once in a while, they even slew a witch, though it was never some fire-conjuring demon-worshiping heathen or yore, only ever some old woman or crippled man who called up on the wild and died spitted on pikes.

But still he became a skilled warrior, a versatile armsmaster, and a swift rider, and eagle-eyed archer.

Not long after, the lie came crashing down around him.

An unknown party was reported to have entered the region by one of the local villages, and Wulf's father mustered the household and rode off to meet them. They said they were from a city far to the west called Vel Anir, and that they were here to explore and chart the region. Wulf's father, uninterested, demanded tribute for passage in his lands.

The Vel Anirans laughed, called him a robber knight, and made to leave. Wulf's father, enraged, ordered a charge.

It wasn't a very long battle. The Vel Anirans had come prepared for trouble and had the might of the Dreadlords and all the martial prowess of their empire on their side. Wulf was one of some fifty armored horsemen. Fewer than half left the battle alive, Wulf's father not among them, and fled to the small fort that was their home.

The Vel Aniran's pursued, they would brook no hazard to their expedition lingering at the rear, and they meant to punish the insolent bandit lord for his offense. The siege, such as it was, didn't last long. The gates were breached by a storm of sorcery that none of the so-called Witch Slayers seemed to be able to withstand, and most of the defenders slain. The women and children were led outside and then simply let go, free to watch as the Vel Aniran's fired the keep and departed, leaving the place only a smoking ruin.

Wulf woke some hours later, more or less unharmed, the only warrior from his people to survive the battle.