Runemancer Atuat

The wind howled. The blizzard had reduced visibility to next to nothing. Atuat steered his raft over the frozen plains, heading west toward the glacier. Its icy wall rose out of the storm, towering over him in a flurry of falling snow.

He slowed the raft. It drifted to a stop a foot or so above the ground at the glacier's base. As he stepped off, the vessel bobbed before settling with a crunch of snow. He pulled his fur cloak tighter around himself, using his harpoon as a walking staff as he trudged through the knee-high drifts, following the ice wall north.

The villagers had told him the prisoners had been taken to the Chaos Legion's encampment: a cave set into the glacier several miles away. Atuat had left at once to rescue them.

Ahead, he spotted a dark opening in the glacier's wall. He stepped inside and left the storm behind. A tunnel stretched before him and disappeared into blackness. He murmured a spell. His harpoon glowed dimly, and he started off down the tunnel. His fur boots made not a sound.

Ahead, the tunnel widened, and a faint light flickered on the rock walls. Atuat extinguished his harpoon and continued forward until he could see a cave at the end of the tunnel. A fire burned at its center. Seven Chaos Legion goons sat around it, tearing into chunks of cooked meat. Blood ran down their chins. They'd removed their armor and their weapons, which were stacked against the far wall, near their bed rolls. Against another wall lay the corpse of a polar bear, its once pristine, white hide ragged and stained red. The prisoner's were beside the corpse. They too were bloodied, their faces bruised and beaten. Some sat slumped against the wall, staring at their feet. Others lay on the ground, unmoving.

Atuat tightened his grip on his harpoon and strode forward. When he entered the cave and the fire's circle of light, the Chaos Legion goons leaped to their feet.

“Who in hellfire are you?” one asked.

Atuat didn't stop. He didn't even slow. “I am the gale that sweeps through your ranks.” He lunged forward and slammed the barbed tip of his harpoon into the nearest goon's gut. He yanked it free, and entrails spilled onto the floor.

With a cry, the others scrambled for their weapons. His harpoon whirled, cutting two more down. “I am the storm sent to avenge your sins.”

The others had their swords now. They charged him. He stepped back, parrying their blows, and swung his harpoon. Its blade tore one man's throat open. He lunged and impaled another.

“I am the terrible violence that lays you to ruin.” The harpoon whirled and struck one of the two remaining goons on the side of the hide, nearly splitting it in two.

The last man stumbled back, eyes wide, sword trembling in his hands.

Atuat leveled his harpoon. “I am the Tempest.” Before joining the Riftwatchers, Atuat made his living at the helm of a custom-built raft capable of low-level flight. Using his mastery of the elemental mana of life, he steered it over the ice fields on his homeworld of Dumacke, transporting supplies along various trade routes. When the Chaos Legion attacked, he used his raft to carry his people out of harm's way, spending countless days and nights evacuating as many as he could from towns and villages caught in the Legion's path. It was then he earned his title “the Tempest” for his fury on the battlefield and his willingness to take on his enemies single-handedly, even when vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

Following the destruction of Dumacke and the loss of its mana, the Riftwatchers took to the skies in their airships, scouring the desolate plains for survivors. Atuat looked from his little raft to the mighty airborne vessels and grinned. He swore that, one day, he'd stand at one's helm and rain his wrath upon the legions of chaos.

Today, Atuat does just that. He is the captain of the largest airship in the Riftwatcher's fleet and the commanding Runemancer of their aerial forces. When he is not searching for and lending aid to survivors on realms destroyed by the Chaos Legion, he is training his captains and his crews. He has taken personal responsibility for their readiness. When the day comes that they take to the skies and set sail for war, he will sail at their front, harpoon in hand, ready to earn his title of “the Tempest” a thousand times over again.