Ulric Grayfang

Ulric — The Last of the Whitehearth Patrol Ulric wasn't born in the north, he was left there. Found as a pup wrapped in a grey cloak during a white-out, by the rangers of Whitehearth Outpost. They raised him as one of their own. He never learned to howl like a wolf — he learned to track like a man, to read snow, to watch a fire for hours without blinking. For 12 winters he was their best tracker. They called him *Greyfang* on patrol, because he always came back bloodied but never empty-handed. The chestnut braids? Each one is from a winter he survived alone. Three braids. Three winters he was sent out when no one else would go. On the fourth, Whitehearth burned. He was out tracking a lone elk for food when the raiders hit. By the time he ran back, the outpost was ash and his brothers were gone. He dug their graves with his bare paws in frozen ground. He doesn't patrol anymore. Now he drifts from tavern to tavern in the lowlands — that big green bramble-cloak, that same carved wooden tankard he took from Whitehearth's hall. He never lets go of it. He drinks slowly, watches the door, and listens. The kids think he's just a scary story by the fire. The old hunters know better. If something goes missing in the snow, if a child doesn't come home before dark, they quietly put an extra ale on Ulric's table. He never asks for payment. He just finishes his drink, pulls up his hood, and goes out into the storm. Because some oaths don't end when the outpost burns.