Hail kinsman, it is I, Connor of kindred Cline, those that have called the crashing waves and coasts of our cold North Sea homeland.

The tale of our tribe is that of the trek from the Aryan* steppes of Eurasia, through to the Nordic northland and southward to Jutland and Tacitus's Ingvaeonic tides.

My feats are many, for I have fared well in my followings, I have flown high above the fowl, where all of the Father’s light is seen, no cloud to frustrate its greatness.

I have gained passage through the gates of the glorious halls of learning, and have taken to greatness within them.

I have given my oath to the corp of officership, and have otherwise taken to the better of it, orchestrating its success and climbing its ranks.

I have coursed through more than a couple of years as a cadet, and have underwent a copious amount of training. I completed with the highest marks, a Cadet Leadership Course, and with these feat I laid the way for my future successes.

Throughout it all, my poor mother was injured in a cruel moment of fate that has marked that of my kindred in all manner of ways, and little was made the better for it, but it did gift me with the strength to muster up courage and make understanding of hardship and tireless effort.

I come to you, as you have called, to visit cruel wrath on those that would covet your crown.

How I would do this would be without peer, I would soon wrestle from them their ability to do what they wish to, but to lay to waste their willpower to do so.

It is one thing to crush your competitors, but to convince them of their own accord (of what realities you have created) to cease their causes is truly the mark of skill and championship.