Svanhild Skardottir
Svanhild Skardottir
Race: Frost Giant
Gender: Female
Age: 26 years
Appearance: Svanhild stands nearly nine feet tall, with shoulders broader than even the largest of human males. Her skin is a pale blue from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and her long hair is pure white as a field of freshly fallen snow. Pale markings run like rivers all across her body, beginning from the corners of her eyes and flowing across her cheekbones before they snake down her neck and trace countless faded paths across fields of hardened muscle and long-healed battle scars. The severity of her features recalls the harshness of her homeland, the stony beauty of a mountain peak that kills any who dare ascend.
Personality: For a giant, Svanhild is surprisingly quiet. She smiles rarely, laughs almost never, and speaks in soft tones that somehow carry all the more weight for it. Time and experience have humbled her youthful ambitions, but her pride remains unbroken, and her every footstep still carries the unshakable authority of a living force of nature.
It is a common fancy among the smaller races that giants are oafish by nature; Svanhild is living proof of the opposite. She approaches situations with a calm pragmatism, and is every bit as willing to resolve matters through cunning and diplomacy as through brute force. Much has been said of her unflinching gaze, always judging and evaluating the world around her like a game board covered in carved stone pieces. Her respect is not given lightly, and this she makes quite clear: those around her must prove themselves worthy before she's willing to extend them even a sliver of her trust.
Her deeper feelings remain carefully concealed. Both kindness and brutality come easily to her, and it's often difficult to tell when she may veer one way or the other. She enjoys material pleasures and worldly possessions, but only when she feels she has earned them; the barren life of the Maw is to her a just reward for having ended up there in the first place.
Background: Born to a giant chieftain in the coldest reaches of the distant highlands, Svanhild was raised to be the fittest and fiercest among her already mighty race. Though tradition dictated that she should inherit the role of clan leader from her mother, the position could only be maintained through proven strength and cunning, and other families lurked like waiting wolves to pounce on any moment of weakness and install their own heirs. Thus, as soon as she had learned to walk and speak, she was taught how to hunt, how to fight, how to barter and negotiate, how to crush her own fears and stand firm in the face of any danger. She learned the icy magics of her people, and the equally potent powers of raw strength and discipline, each one reinforcing and shoring up the weaknesses of the other. Even as her young heart hardened and hid itself away within an invincible shell of frost, a fire began to burn deep within, a flame of ambition that urged her not only to command her clan but to lead them to new heights of greatness and influence.
Fate had other plans, however. The ever-growing Kingdom and its people were encroaching further and further into the highlands, and their plump forts and settlements proved a target too tempting to ignore. An ill-advised raid ended in a one-sided slaughter, and Svanhild's mother ended up with her head mounted on a pike at the hands of the White Tiger's soldiers. The remnants of the clan were forced to scatter and flee, seeking refuge with other giant tribes lest they be killed or taken as slaves by the ever-advancing tides of civilization.
Just as she had been taught, Svanhild swallowed her grief and froze over her pain, never accepting defeat. She joined ranks with another clan, and quickly proved her mettle there, offering up the fresh carcasses of fierce beasts she had broken with her own hands. The young chieftain took a liking to her, and she entertained his fantasies, slowly seducing him with the promise of a strong and beautiful wife. When he finally demanded her hand, she challenged him to win it from her in a barehanded contest of strength—and proceeded to mercilessly thrash him with his entire tribe as witness.
With a new clan now at her back, the giantess sought out allies. She rode across the highlands and parleyed with a dozen other nomad leaders, winning them over with generous gifts and careful flattery while emphasizing the imminent danger of the Tiger's expanding Kingdom. They could unite and make a stand here, or be slowly swallowed and subsumed by the beast of civilization: which would it be?
A loose alliance formed, rival clans of giants and others amassing into an impressive barbarian horde. They surged forth across the highlands and spilled deep into the kingdom, burning and looting as they went. Their sheer speed and numbers briefly overwhelmed the opposing forces, and for a moment Svanhild's dream seemed nearly within reach—she could use this momentum to consolidate power, unite the tribes beneath her, and ride forth with an unstoppable army to conquer the entire kingdom, taking back what it had stolen from her a thousand times over.
Unfortunately for her, the White Tiger's generals were already well-versed in the suppression of upstart savages. Recognizing the threat, they acted before it could fully manifest, and used spies and sleeper agents to sow dissent among their enemies. Chaos erupted between the clans, as old grudges suddenly resurfaced and naked greed formed new divides. Some struck out on their own, others turned on each other, and none were prepared when the Kingdom swooped in with a methodical and well-organized force that cut through orcs and giants like a scythe through so much wheat. Svanhild met them head-on, and drenched herself in the blood of pulverized soldiers, but no amount of skill or vengeful fury could save her from the weight of numbers arrayed against her. On the verge of death, she was chained up and dragged from her home, a suitably impressive spoil of war to be caged up and paraded before the citizenry.
It took just two days before she pulled a nearly successful escape attempt, and took the life of several guards in the process. The incident made it clear there were only two ways left to deal with her: chop off her head and be done with it, or throw her somewhere deep and dark enough that even a giant could never break out. Protocol dictated that a large-scale threat like her ought to be properly disposed of, but an unstoppable living battering ram was bound to come in handy someday... And really, where was the downside? Death itself would release her from its clutches before the Maw ever did.
Talents: Even the feeblest of frost giants can snap a man in half like a twig, and Svanhild is a monster among her kind. She can plow through brick walls and crack open stone fortifications with raw strength alone, all while maneuvering her enormous body with a terrifying swiftness and agility. Trained to hunt and fight from the early days of childhood, she applies this overwhelming power with devastating precision, and is equally proficient at squaring off against opponents her own size as she is at squashing swarms of irritating little bugs. Her sheer mass and size make her incredibly difficult to put down, and lend her an imposing presence that draws attention and strikes fear in equal measure.
The giantess is far more than a simple powerhouse, however. She’s an experienced commander versed in battlefield tactics, group operations, and diplomacy, as well as an exotic variant of frost magic that can conjure up tools, weapons, and armor of enchanted ice. It’s a simple, practical spell that can be cast on the fly to equip her for any kind of situation—she can even arm her allies, assuming they don’t mind the cold.
Flaws: Number one downside to being an enormous blue woman: it makes you stick out like a sore thumb. Stealth is nearly impossible for a being like Svanhild, and her presence tends to set people on edge and make them paranoid for their own safety. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s from the far frontiers, and though she’s picked up the local dialect during her time in the Maw, she hasn’t had the chance to learn much of the Kingdom and its ways in person.
Though her prior defeat and capture taught her a sore lesson about underestimating humans and their cunning, she still clings onto her pride as a leader by birthright, and chafes at being forced to follow orders. She considers herself superior to everyone around her, and it’s hard for her to recognize anyone as a true equal without also seeing them as competition to be surpassed. She also likes to take trophies from her victories, particularly important and valuable things, and doesn’t pay much mind to the fact that people might come after her for whatever she stole.
Equipment:Her boots and clothing, ornate and striking yet far tougher than any threads woven by human hands.
