Rules:

All players will write their characters at level 1. Keep the abilities to a minimum. This takes place some several years ago, but new and old writers are welcome.

The setting is a small border village just to the north of the dagger peaks which divide Alerar and Salvar. No more than an inn, tavern downstairs, and a few scattered homesteads for some lumberjacks, miners, and farmers. It is winter and even the green lands of southern Salvar are blanketed in a fresh snowfall.

For the vets, you can make this as canon or non-canon as you like. Use it as an opportunity to explore your character's or and NPC's early years.
Many years ago, the Terror of the North wore a different face and a different name. His cold, chiseled features were soft and the serpentine jade eyes were wide. The waterfall of silken white hair was shorter then, and worn up toward the sky like many small spires of ice. The uniform of an Aleran soldier draped over his body and the thick wool of a winter cloak hung off his shoulders. The young man, just barely a man by definition, carried a large, broad sword upon his back. The crest of the military showed barely on the worn leather of its sheath.

Yes, a long time ago, the murderous scourge was just a boy -- a fresh recruit of the military with bright aspirations for the future. Beside him sat another youth near equal in age. This man wore his deep walnut hair slicked back with just a few rogue strands left to tease at his brow. His eyes seemed much less kind, but held a deep determination in their gaze. This man, though more intimidating than his white crested counterpart, cracked a warm smile at his friend's poorly told joke. He brought the rim of a frothy ale to his lips and drew a mouthful of its crisp, bitter refreshment.

"Dude, I'm telling you, one night with a busty broad and maybe that one eyed bastard of a sergeant might give us a decent detail." Lye chuckled after rapping his brother in arms on the back, nearly causing him to choke on his ale. The teen brought his glass up as if to toast and took a deep swig.

"Perhaps if you took your station more seriously, Lye..." Seth trailed on as he dried the corners of his lips.

"What the hell does that mean?! I do take this seriously!" Lye's outburst caused his colleague to chuckle.

"Your swordsmanship says otherwise," Seth teased with a tap against the sword's hilt that propped beside his chair.

"Bullshit. Seth, we're 7-6. You just got lucky with that last match."

"Dunno, looked to me like you can't watch your footing in the snow..."

Lye grumbled. His rival made a valid point and he choked on the words for a retort. Instead, Lye settled into his chair, cradled his beer, and drowned out his defeat with a few extra gulps of swill.

"I hate you, you know that?" Lye spat in a low, whimpering tone.

"No you don't, you're just a poor loser." Seth chuckled again. He lifted his glass and tapped the bottom of his against the rim of Lye's.

"To next match, huh?"

"Yeah..."

And the two took another swig.