Eryndor Haraldsson

Eryndor Haraldsson was once a Northlander raider of no great fame—just another hard-eyed oarsman with blood in his beard and salt in his lungs. His cutter, The Wavebiter, was dashed upon the reef-shards of Unulf during a storm said to have been summoned by Tempest himself. With his crew drowned and his ribs shattered beneath the broken mast, he lay upon the rocks, the tide claiming his breath. But rather than curse or pray, Eryndor laughed—a hoarse, gurgling sound that defied the sky itself. He laughed at the storm’s fury, at his death, and at the sheer arrogance of nature to think it could cow him.   The storm paused.   It did not end, but it listened. And in that moment, something ancient stirred beneath the waves and within the thunder. Eryndor, broken and drowning, did not beg for mercy. He offered the only thing he had left—his rage. Not to yield, but to wield. Lightning danced in his lungs. When he stood again, ribs cracked but unbent, the sky hissed in approval. The Court of Storm and Surge had found a new champion—not born of the tempest, but tempered by it.   Now clad in sea-soaked leathers and crowned in stormlight, Eryndor serves Caelum Thunderstrike, answering only to fury, tide, and oath. His rage is not blind—it is controlled chaos, like a stormwind held on a leash of sinew and will. When he rages, the sea responds: winds lash his enemies, thunder rolls in his footsteps, and saltwater surges where none should be. His presence brings dread not because he seeks death—but because he delivers it without hesitation, as the storm does.   Eryndor fights not for crowns, not for gods, but for the right to stand unbroken in the face of anything that dares challenge him—be it mortal, fey, or storm itself. He has no crew, no flag, no hall to call his own. Only the sea, the sky, and the thunder in his blood. And when he bellows his war cry, it is not a plea for victory—it is a dare, flung like lightning at the world:   "Come. Break me again. See who bends first."