Jarl

As he strode confidently into the bailey of his enemy's beachhead fortress, Olgir the Untamable couldn't shake the feeling that his entire life had been building up to this one moment. It was finally time to take back what was rightfully his, to do what his uncle had tried and ultimately failed to do shortly after the Great Cataclysm. To conquer all the three lands and bring them under the Wolf Clan's rule. 

Olgir had sworn upon taking up the mantle of Jarl that this time, things would be different. This region would not claim him like it did his uncle, Gunnar the Animal, who was rumored to have been slain and devoured by a hideous jungle creature the size of three men. He'd come too far to let something like that happen. 

Olgir's best friend and second-in-command, Eirik the Proud, trailed a few feet behind him with the rest of the platoon in tow. On Eirik's shoulder rested the heavy claymore that was his heritage. This weapon, like his father who had wielded it before him, endured countless battles and remained strong and sharp throughout the test of time. Astrid and Sigurd, Eirik's most trusted soldiers, flanked him on both sides as he walked. 

Moments later, Olgir the Untamable suddenly raised a fist and brought everyone to a halt. Something wasn't right. 

 "What is it, Jarl?" Eirik asked in a gruff manner. 

Olgir didn't respond. The strategically lit fires. The random obstructions that upon closer inspection were lined with poles of sharpened bamboo. The fact that the bailey he and his forces were currently standing in was essentially a big bowl. He didn't like this. Olgir wheeled around to warn his Second that this must be some kind of trap, but it was too late. A lethal storm of enemy arrows already blanketed the sky above them.