During the waning years of the Watchful Peace, in its long stillness, the Northmen of Rhovanion tilled the vast, wind-shorn plains that bloomed with heather - a purple mist over the rolling hills.

Seas of dusky violet carried the scent of late blossoms in the watchful hours of a silence preluding war. In the lands where river Running would silver through the great meadows and form a mighty confluence; its strength mingled and flowing with the great waters from the Iron Hills, down to the sea of Rhûn - there, noble Men of Wilderland shaped their days by the slow rhythm of harvest and herds. Shepherds and ploughmen lived by the turning of the seasons. No great war troubled them, but these borderlands were never truly safe. Cruel-eyed men from the lands of the crescent moon, clad in brazen mail and wielding great axes, oft came with their dregs of war.

In his youth, Ingwar rode with the honorable spears of his lord, fighting alongside duty-bound warriors of noble virtue. The border wars were fought fiercely, but ever true to justice and righteousness - even against the Easterlings and Wainriders, heralding their kindred to the fair Horselords of the Mark.

However, for some men prone to their vices, the taste of obedience grew bitter. To Ingwar, the noble ideals of his lord began to feel increasingly hollow. He grew restless, craving more than just victory by the sword's edge - he wished to bring the fight to his enemies in ways that honored no code, for neither did they.

One fateful night, weary of the shackles of honor, Ingwar and a few like-minded men rode out under the cover of darkness, defying their lords to unleash savage retribution on the Rhûnic towns bordering the great plains. Thatch-roofed villages burned, and black smoke mingled with mourning songs. Whispers of the skirmish spread across the lands. They had fallen to the grim affliction of vengeance. It is said that Northmen outriders, once noble, laid waste to and scoured several villages in the uncharted lands. Some whispered that a bloodlust so great consumed these once fair men, and in their battle frenzy, they committed a butchery. They tasted the unbridled chaos of plunder and left behind a trail of destruction, forever shedding their sacred vows to harm none innocent. In that moment, they became lesser men and cast themselves out.

One was caught, and the lords of Wilderland rebuked him. No greater judgment was laid upon him than banishment, for to the Middle Men, death was more seemly than shame.

Ingwar now walks beneath strange stars, a blade for hire in the broken realms beyond the mountains. His eyes still burn with the fires of the East, but of this he never speaks. Grim-faced and heavy with scars, he holds the weight of oaths broken and memories long buried. Bearing the past like his sword, unyielding, he seeks in blood a peace he could not find in neither home nor hearth.