"When the mountain demands a path, it is the Boarborn who answer."

Old mountain songs tell of hunts where the mist grew so thick that even the lanterns vanished. Those who survived spoke of broad silhouettes moving ahead of them through the fog, tusks gleaming white beneath weathered antlers, silently guiding them through the storm.

Among the hunting clans of the Hollowwind, few titles carried greater respect than Boarborn.
They were the vanguards of the Wild Hunt. The backbone who lead the charge.

When the hunt crossed broken ridges, ancient forests, or valleys where forgotten spirits lingered, it was the Boarborn who walked first. Their task was not glorious, but burdened. They broke the trail through untamed wilderness, stood against charging beasts, and held the line so those behind them could press ever onward.

To bear the weight of the bib was to know that though you may fall, others will return because you did not falter.

The boar was chosen not for its ferocity alone, but for its unyielding resolve. Cornered, it neither begged nor fled. It met the world head-on, and the clans believed those who wore its likeness should do the same.