POOHEAD189

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren laughed, much like a boy caught in the midst of a prank would. He had a nice voice, but it was humbled when he nearly chocked on a piece of jerky. He hit his chest with his hand and swallowed, clearing his throat.

"I wouldn't say it's a habit, no." He said, keeping it relatively vague to mess with her. He pulled the cloak tighter around his left, uncovered arm. "But I do tend to get into situations like this. Well...yeah, no, I do."

"Same here," she admitted, but turned to look at the door they hadn't yet walked through. "Though none quite like this so far."

"As for damsels, is that what you consider yourself?" He asked with a smirk.

She turned back and fluttered her lashes, looking for all the world like a lost maiden in a romance tale. "Who me? Why do you ask?"

He tried to hide a smile, but was unsuccessful. The fire was starting to feel very warm, and the enclosed room felt nice. He hadn't counted on having a place to make a fire before reaching the town of Helguart. He was also a little embarrassed. Beren was the kind of person who got along well with people and didn't think about it until he got a step too far. He knew she was joking, but he hadn't been on a real date in awhile, by his estimation. He was more used to death than an attractive woman, and he felt that was sad in and of itself.

She really was different, though. Somehow after the wholesale slaughter of the caravan and the dangers that had accompanied it, he felt somehow good. He knew he shouldn't, but he did. Silently he made a small prayer for their souls, and to get he and Jocasta out of this literal dungeon. He didn't want to dwell on it, and a question came to him. Now that he had some time to think, it should be an obvious question.

"Why are you here?" He asked her suddenly, turning to her. His dark eyes looked rich and golden in the firelight, much like the bronze of the torque. The light showed his hair wasn't black like one might assume at first glance, but a dark chocolate. "Did you come to find ruins like this? You seem to know a lot, and where did you learn it?"

He leaned against one of the rocks and let his elbow rest on it, in turn resting his chin on his hand as he looked at her. He found she really was pretty.

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren had taken the opportunity of the sudden, freezing breath to grab at the ripped sleeve still on the now-impassive blade. Frost flaked the cloth, but it didn't seem too damaged other than where it had been severed. He would hire someone to sew it back on, because Evergod knew it was cold enough up here in the wilderness. He barely felt adequately dressed even with his shirt, outer shirt, and the jacket. Luckily the catacombs, while not warm, did not have the freezing temperature or biting wind of the upper world. He shook the frost off and shoved the cold length into his pocket just as Jocasta introduced herself.

He had vaguely recalled her name being Jo-something, and she had evidently remembered his name. He took her hand and shook it, giving a knowing smile. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Beren."

"Are you cold, tired, and hungry Beren?"

"Yep."

"Then let's see if we can get out of here," she said, responsibly. The pretty woman thought a moment, placing a finger on her bottom lip. "Depending on if there's another exit and the tunnel is leading due north-west like I think it is, we should be slowly heading along the path we would have taken had we not been attacked."

"If this tomb-complex has more resting places, then it should have another exit. Then again, I'm not familiar with this culture. What even caused these things to get up?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is, I don't think it's the same reason or even the same source of power that had summoned the dark army just outside. The runes along these walls are filled with poetic portents, sagas, and soliloquies. There seems to be some sort of latent pocket of fel magics that wants to defend this place very badly."

"Let's hope we can oblige and get the hell out," Beren grunted, and the two began a small trek forward. The next room was an armory, with withered, old weapons, shields, and suits of mail. A red and gold cape was draped along a wooden bar on the wall. Beren took it and shook the dust off of it as Jocasta rifled through the old weapons. Beren decided to take the cape for warmth, and Jocasta pocketed a rusted but ancient seax with a silver wolfish embalm on the hilt. Blowing on it before putting it away, she found it wasn't rusted but simply dusty like the cloak. There were ripples along the blade that caught the low light in different, glittering facets.

Beren took a moment to admire the weaponry as well, but soon they moved on, going down winding, baroque stone stairs that fed into a foyer connecting a large chamber with walkways and hanging lights of strange crystals that glowed, casting the ground in pallid illumination. Beren stepped over a line that had been laid as a trap, and Jocasta managed to find the exit by following the pictograms of a marching army along the wall until they reached an archway made of brass and iron.

Beren stepped in carefully, and when nothing happened, they walked further and traversed three long halls and guardrooms (where they found some old coins and swiftly nicked them) until they found another foyer. Only this one was partially broken, some hard earth poking through the stone and roots winded down the right wall like the tentacles of some monster. More importantly, there was an empty brazier on a stone rise.

"Keep going or...?"

"No, I need to sit on my ass for a bit." Jocasta said tiredly. As she went to sit, Beren handed her a small bag he had in his backsack. She opened it up inquisitively and found jerky in there.

"Not much, but it's something." He told her, and he went to the wall and yanked at the roots that tangled out of the shattered stone, breaking some off and tossing it into the stone brazier. After about nine or ten gnarled, dry roots he grabbed two rocks and began to slide them together, trying to make a fire.

"Oh, let me." Jocasta said helpfully with her mouth half-full. She got up and snapped, mumbling a few words.

Nothing happened. She blinked, and then snapped again, and again, and again, and then three times in rapid succession before a flame erupted from the brazier like an oil-fire. She squawked and fell back into Beren, who caught her as gently as he could.

"Good job," they both said together, and then they said 'no problem,' and then they shut up for a moment as they felt the next words would inevitably be the same too. The room was small, and soon it would be cozy with the flame. Luckily, the catacombs had filters and vents for air in the ceiling, likely more for the workers who made the tomb than for the benefit of the eternal sleepers in the tombs themselves. Beren draped the blanket over his shoulder, and then stretched it to drape over his companion's as well. She handed him some jerky, and he took it with a smile. She took out the knife and looked at it curiously, holding it up in the firelight.

"Do you always meet guys like this?" He asked her, trying to fill the silence with levity.

Merry Guildmas

Merry Christmas @POOHEAD189, @Hank, @NuttsnBolts and @LegendBegins. Thanks for being here to keep this boat afloat. :D

@Dark Cloud

Thank you, friend!

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"But this stuff is priceless!" She complained, getting hustled through the earthen mausoleum. She did well on her feet, even when being moved bodily by Beren holding her shoulders or half carrying her. They had just officially met no more than an hour ago, but neither seemed too preoccupied with worry about personal space or awkwardness at the moment when the shuffle of feet and rasping croaks of awakened denizens, ones that shouldn't exist in all laws of the natural world, just down the corridor behind them.

"Look, later when you have supplies and better equipment you can come back. I might even come with you, but for now we need to get going!" He told her, taking a step down the next archway. His booted foot touched down, and suddenly there was a mere moment of low scraping that served as the brief and only warning of a trap being sprung.

Three scything, axe-like instruments on pendulums slid out of the hall's walls, the first nearly chopping off Beren's nose. Jocasta stumbled into him, as he had stopped on a dime. The axe swung left and passed him just as she pushed him, and he swung his arms wildly to keep balance as its arc ended and it began to swing back at him. He knocked her back by throwing his rump desperately backwards at her and then sprang backwards as well just as the axe descended back into the pattern. It would have completely decapitated him had he kept himself in that position.

"Are you ok?" She asked him, embarrassed of the very real death she had nearly thrown him into. He had his hands on his knees and idly reached up to feel his neck to make sure his head was still attached.

"Yeah, I think so." He breathed, pulling back his thick mane of dark hair.

"Beren!" She said suddenly. He perked up like an alerted hound, and when he saw her eyes looking past him, he moved in pure, instinctual muscle memory. Beren spun and gave a beautiful roundhouse kick to the draugr that he had correctly guessed was behind him, punching into its gnarled chest cavity and sending the corpse stumbling back into the wall to drop to the floor.

"Nice," she said, impressed.

Two more entered the room. One was akin to the one Beren had (likely) dispatched. A circlet on its head and rags, more dust than cloth, clinging to its wraith-like form. It had a heavy, broad bladed sword it lifted high in the air like the axes still swinging on the path ahead. It swung at Jocasta in a surprising rush, who ducked the blow but couldn't keep a hold of the torque she had on her arm. It reached for it with wicked fingers and grabbed it, having used the blow as a mere distraction. It yanked the cord, but it was made of bronze links and did not break. As it swung again, trying to brain her, Jocasta's short sword lifted up to parry in a clang of metal. Clearly she knew some self defense, as her arm was in the perfect position to give a back-handed blow to its head. The bone and teeth hurt, but it staggered the thing for the second it took to swing her sword back in a calculated move to cut its head clear from its rotting shoulders.

She relaxed for a split second, until the headless thing grabbed her by the neck and began to squeeze. She stabbed into its stomach with a cry and then shoved it away before she hacked its arm and the rest of the body to pieces.

Behind her, the third Draugr stood and watched calmly, swaying just enough to showcase it had indeed not lost its unnatural animation.

When it's 'comrade' died, that was when it lifted its grimril axe, the grey-metal blade glimmering. This was the Druagr that had punched through stone, wearing a crown of iron with gilded rings still on its fingers. The others had shown a bit of cunning, but this one showed full autonomy, or at least some dark will guided it. It moved with an alien gait, both stiff and yet sure footed as it rounded the tombs in the chamber.

"Beren where are you!?" She called, turning to see her companion. Before her eyes, he had somehow found a stone slab in his arms. It must have weighed as much or her, or even more. He carried it with just a small grunt and leveled it at the archway, and he tossed it into the corridor like it was a log to add to a greater pile. The axes bit into it and groaned loudly, but luckily the slab had stopped the trap for the moment, bits of stone crumbling from its sides.

"Next time, tell me you have a plan." She said as she approached him, leaping over a small wall and knocking aside a rustic candelabra in her hurry to get to him.

He didn't respond, his eyes noting the small fragments that fell from the deteriorating slab of stone. Just as Jocasta reached him, the front axe continued its swing as the ass-end of the stone broke just beside them. Beren's eyes widened, and in an instant he reached for the haft that descended from the ceiling and held the crescent blade, stopping it and planting his foot on the wall, arms shaking as the thing threatened to cleave Beren in half. Between him and the quivering blade, there was a small opening Jocasta could just squeeze through.

"Cutting it close, aren't you?" She asked breathlessly. She didn't quip and wait for a reaction, however. Jocasta moved closer and carefully she slid one leg through and then the other, flattening her upper body as best as she could in the tight quarters, squaring her shoulders. Her generous chest was almost pressed to his face, a hair's breadth away from touching his nose as she slid by him.

"Not by design," He grunted hoarsely, both from the exertion and the close proximity. His vision having been filled with the danger and the admittedly distracting assets of his new tomb-diving partner, once she was passed him he almost missed the Barrow-King's approach. Suddenly the witch-light from its eyes drew his attention as it stepped just to his right, and it made a rasping gasp, the first noise it had made in millennia. Beren could smell the old, rank air that erupted from its throat, air that could kill a man if inhaled too deeply. It raised its own axe, and he knew it was do or die.

Beren let go of the scythe-bladed trap as he pivoted and threw his body, hips-first to the left, letting it swing to the wall and block the descending axe-blade of the Barrow-King. Unfortunately, as the blade swung its reverberation made the others shake, causing the slab to crack, seams running through the stone just below Jocasta's feet.

"Oh fuck!" Jocasta called, and she scrambled across the slab like a crumbling bridge as both the second and third pendulum scythes began to bite further into the stone. Beren hurried behind her, and she dived out of the corridor just as the slab broke. The woman hit the ground in a roll, and lucky for her. Jocasta's shoulder hit a pressure point. Arrows shot by some unknown mechanism were loosed from kill-holes from the left and right walls, cutting across the stuffy air just above her prone form.

Unfortunately for Beren, he only managed to clamber passed the second scythe-axe before the slab deteriorated and broke into three separate pieces with an enormous cracking sound, much like a wheelock rifle, that rang across the walls of the mausoleum. Nearly getting split open again, he froze between the two blades as they began their deadly rhythm again and waited for his chance. Jocasta had gotten to her feet by then, the arrows harmlessly now splayed across the floor. Beren counted the iterations, one, two, three, and then butterfly kicked out of the hall in a desperate leap. The blades scythed across the air swiftly, so quick were they that even timing it perfectly, its razored edge sliced into Beren's shoulder. Only by the grace of the gods did he land unharmed, the left sleeve of his jacket having been sheared off and swinging with the last blade just a stride from him. It revealed an impressively tanned and built arm, but he seemed more annoyed than glad even standing there unscathed.

"Fuck, that was my favorite jacket." He growled in a fuss. "My dad got me that jacket."

Across the archway, the Barrow-King watched them impassively as the swinging blades now stood between it and its prey.

Sails and Spells

Malcador shrugged, and gave the Captain a nod in acknowledgement. He was certainly trying to get her favor, but he also wasn't lying in his eagerness to serve or help out. What better way to prove he wasn't going to betray them at a moment's notice? As long as they gave him a comfortable place to sleep, good food, and perhaps some pleasant company, he would be as happy as ever.

He smoothed his drying hair as best he could, understandable making sure there were no leaves or lingering bits of old crew members on him. Whilst he wanted to live, he wasn't a suck-up either. Malcador was a relatively respected mage in the Mythrim Tethir and he also wanted to appear dignified, though he had a certain manner of vanity as well. Clearing his throat, he gave Runa and the others a nod as they walked past and he followed suit, the Boatswain tagging along to evidently keep him company.

The sun had not yet set, but the horizon was fiery and quite beautiful, and a gloom settled over the landscape. The soil they walked on wasn't quite hardened dirt, but it could sustain tree and plant life, and they weren't at the sands of the beach yet, either. As he followed, he noted the ship Skirmisher he had sailed in on being towed toward this new Galleon run by the ladies. He figured those men left on the Skirmisher would be sold off for ransom. Better than a sword to the gut or the hangman's noose. Oddly enough, despite their ruthless tendencies and the constant threat of death, it was oddly nice seeing the lady pirates sigh or cheer at the mere sight of their ship. No matter how you sliced it, home was home even to cutthroats and sailors.

"So do I report to you or the Captain on the conditions of my quarters and food?" He asked the Boatswain, simple and honest. If they were going to turn around and hang him they had wasted a lot of time, so he suspected he really was going to be put on the ship as a crew-member. If so, he did need to eat and sleep, and he doubted they would shove him in a communal sleeping area with the girls. He might not mind it but that would cause inevitable problems. "Also, what is the ship name and what is your name? I don't believe we have become acquainted yet."

He held out a hand, a small smile played on his lips. His voice was liquid chocolate, and only halfway because he attempted to make it so. Truth be told, he did have a nice voice.

A Thousand Legends ~ Sundered Veil

Yazju Fleetscale

---

Yazju knocked a man aside with a big arm, breaking the assailants nose and sending them to the ground. Yazju shoved and pushed, but he couldn't get through the mass of attackers, and the defenders harried him as well. They didn't know he was trying to help, and it would cost them the life of their charge! Yazju roared, but there was nothing he could do. All of his and Fujiko's efforts were for naught, and he watched helplessly as the blade plunged into the Emperor Xiao Shang. Yazju had always wanted to meet a folk leader, and now not only did he lose his chance, but the attackers had triumphed.

He hissed at the proclamation of the man, looking very much like a huge crocodile about to slide into the water for a meal.

He and his friend Fujiko could not save the Emperor, but they could avenge him. He attacked again with renewed fury, hacking and cutting into assassins like a butcher, shouldering his way through and doing his best to ignore what glancing wounds he received. His eyes focused on Ubagai Wakuno, mouth open wide with sharpened teeth extended. Yazju had a bad habit of being scatterbrained, but this was one goal he would see to the end! The death of the Emperor's murderer.

Tales of Azeroth: Flames of Chaos

is this WC3 era?

The Black Delta

It would be hard to remember that night, were it not such a vivid scene.

The stinking stench of unmitigated sweat and vomit permeating the air, mixed with the telltail smell of booze and water. Sea water had a distinct smell, but by the eleventh day, everything smelled of seawater. It was hard to tell if all the water seeping to the lower decks was rain or wave, but spirits were high. No pirate or wind had dared impede their journey until the last stretch before they reached Darkwater Dock. Here the seas were shallow, and the land was too wild for any sizeable corsair raiders. Their kind stayed on the islands and shipping lanes.

The Skirmisher had just passed the tail of the Peninsula, the gateway to the Black Delta. Through Elven waters into Corsair waters, they sailed at all speed. Only now were they home free, and they celebrated accordingly. The lower decks were getting wetter from the water above, but it was warm and full of drink and song. Fraternizing on the Skirmisher was looked down upon by the Captain, but he was above deck helping weather the storm and men and women went off in pairs what private pockets they could find to rut to their heart's content. Disobeying the Captain was bad luck, but then again sailors said many things were. Still, everyone had high hopes and knew they would be docking in a few scant days.

It all went bad in seconds.

The ship lifted. The lights swung on their hinges. A sudden sense of weightlessness and vertigo, and a lone, helpless cry from above rang out. The silence beyond it was deafening, until the ship's groaning returned like a roar. There was water and pressure, and blackness sank in as everything around the passengers below exploded, sending all into oblivion. Muffled sounds and terrible sucking of all things into the nether could be recalled, and the shadowy silhouette of some terrible finned monstrosity was the last thing to be remembered...

Now there was sand, and heat. Stuffy, scratchy throats and dry breath, and sunburn from a harsh, unforgiving ball of molten flames far above. Consciousness gradually returned with their senses, and it was merciless. Apart from the sunburns, aches and pains and an awful dryness wracked every body that lay on the beach. Kindling and bits of the ship's foundations lay near them like the ribs of a decayed whale. Bodies of dead sailors, including one oddly without its legs, lapped and swayed in the water as the tide came in.

The Captain, his body rough but with the possibility of life, lay along the beach just a few spans from the bodies.

To the left, rocks piled up blocked their path. A natural obstacle that cut into the landscape, blocking crashing waves every so often. Before them lay exotic ferns and trees covered in vines. A mass of foliage where a jungle lay, and just at the treeline stood a small statue where a strange figure had been carved. It looked like a cross between a frog and a bat, sitting atop a rock and baring its fangs as if at the castaways. To the right was endless, ubiquitous beach that stretched beyond the scope of sight, the waves washing against the land and crying out every few moments. Where they were, it was difficult to tell. But they were in the land they had sought. The Black Delta, a hot, unforgiving land of primal dangers.

But first they had to get up.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt tried to match her gaze, but he had to admit her eyes made it hard for him to concentrate so he decided that was a losing strategy. Plus, he doubted his own look could be quite so striking as her stare. He opted to instead sit back and truly think on what she just proposed.

"A hero?" He asked, unable to keep a breathless chuckle from escaping his lips. Usually a life of good deeds and one wrong move led many to the gallows. Galt was someone who had spent his life committing crimes, and his one good deed set him up as a heroic figure. Why did he deserve this when so many good men had been destroyed for far less? He didn't know, and it made him treat the entire notion with incredulity, at least initially.

Perhaps he was a hero, or could play the part. He had never considered himself one, but then again its because no one had ever compared him to one before either. At least until a mere month ago. "Well, I am dashing." He said, trying to be funny. He knew he wasn't bad looking, but a mysterious, debonair figure was something he could attempt to be. At least Silke thought he fit the bill, and her opinion mattered more than his own in this situation.

"I can fight and move like I'm meant to be here. Like I'm attractive and confident. I can smile when I need to and be coy when it suits me. I guess that's all that really matters when it comes to appearances." He said, crossing his arms. Briefly, he gave Silke another glance, and nodded his agreement. In a way he was relieved, this wasn't entirely out of his element. He had infiltrated baron's mansions and criminals dens before as someone not himself. This would be even easier. He was himself, and what acting he did, he needn't worry on getting caught in it. This was his new life, he better get used to it.

"Funding Orphanages might be good. Maybe a hospital as well," He said. Hospitals on the continent were just as much homeless shelters as they were for healing the sick and easing those that lay dying. That would also reduce the crime in the city and countryside as well. People would owe the gangs less in terms of money and homage if they could get food and education elsewhere. "But how would I get the money to fund projects like that in the first place? I don't think I own any farms or goods, do I? Wait, do I have subjects I am taxing?"

The Black Delta

Kjetil Svendsen

Kjetil Svendsen

Norgardian | 32 | Male

Appearance

Standing at 6'2 and having a muscular build due to training and years of fighting. He has long red hair that almost extends to his chest, along with a full red beard, and has in both his hair and beard braids in them. Mainly at the end points of his hair and beard. He has a pale complexion, and while his face does not have scars, his arms, chest, and back have several. He carries himself like a warrior, there is no mistaking it. Tends to have a serious look on his face most of the time.

Personality

Kjetil can be described as a stoic and, at times, an emotionless person, along with being a religious person. This is due to years of being a warrior in service of a religious warrior cult and despite leaving the cult. He can still be a religious and passionate person, especially when it is not rage, and can be a reliable ally and friend. Though only if you win his trust, and he is slow to trust others. Though once that trust is broken, then it is hard to regain his trust. As a result of his training, he uses his anger in combat. It is actually hard to make him angry outside of combat since he can control it and only will get angry if someone really tries or said something happens that he takes personally. And he can be rather cold to someone that he dislikes.

Background

• Profession: Warrior
• Class: Barbarian
• Heritage: Noble

History Kjetil was born the youngest of four to a noble family in Norgard and from early on. He had shown he had a warrior spirit in him. Always wanting to spar with his older siblings and pick fights with others of his age. He was given a noble education and when he was fourteen. His parents knowing full well of his warrior spirit and knowing that he as little chance of inheriting anything of note. They wanted him to have a good life regardless. It was then that his parents decided to give him to the Wolves of Ulfric. A religious warrior cult that being apart of it was considered a great honor to both Kjetil and his family, even if he had no choice in the matter.

For years Kjetil trained under the Wolves. Under strict training and learning their ways, praying exclusively to their patron deity, Ulfric, God of Wolves, Winter, and Battle. Kjetil was taught to tap into his anger and channel it into a primal fury. Becoming a warrior that by the time he was eighteen, Kjetil was almost a Wolf, but he still had one last test to see if he would truly join the cult. That test was going on a raid and prove that he had truly become one of them and earned his place among them by surviving his first battle.

He was sent along with a Norgardian raiding party that was heading to the lands of the Banians. There Kjetil, using his training and tapping into his anger. Kjetil entered into a primal fury and killed several Banians during the raid despite the injuries to his body. In the end, he would survive his first battle and come out with several kills and loot. The Wolves, upon his return, welcomed him and was officially made a member of the cult. It was one of the happiest days of his life and one he would not forget.

For ten years, he was in the cult and went on many raids. Kjetil did not just become a strong warrior but considered his fellow Wolves as family. Growing close to them and would grow close to one in particular. Ingunn was her name, a former commoner and one of the several women in the cult. The pair worked and did well together, and the two fell in love. While he knew the cult had no problems with Wolves getting together as long as it did not stop them from their duties. It started to make him think about things, and now he was with Ingunn. The life he started to want would not be possible within the cult. So after a deal of courage from both of them, the two ask the cult's leader Aslak for permission to leave the cult. Aslak noted how long they have been with them and how well they have served under Ulfric. So after much time, he finally decided not to allow them to leave the cult and that the two should be separated from each other.

Kjetil did not take this well, and the two were punished by Aslak. But this did not stop the two, and eventually, they were able to escape from the cult and flee to Thaegoradrim. There they tried to live a normal life in a village and hide from the cult as best they could. For a few years, this worked, and the couple lived happily there. However, it was hard for Kjetil to adjust to living there because of his warrior and noble background, but he tried his best and seemed to be getting the hang of it. More so once he learned that Ingunn was pregnant with their child. Then their happiness turned to tragedy.

One day the cult found them while Kjetil was in the fields and Ingunn was at their home. A group of five Wolves disguised as guards appeared at the village, and once they spotted Ingunn, they threw off their disguises and charged her. Roaring the cult's battle cry and Kjetil was able to hear the battle cry and instantly knew that the cult had found them. Rushing back home, he found Ingunn bloody and in the middle of fighting the Wolves. Rushing to her side and unleashed his primal fury on the Wolves. In the end, the Wolves were slain with help from the local guards, and while it left Kjetil wounded but alive. Ingunn was not so lucky and would die a short time after the fight from her wounds. With one last breath, she made Kjetil promise one thing, that he should live, and he knew what she meant by that. That he should not take revenge against the cult since it would be suicide, and she did not want him to die in a fruitless fight.

So after burying her body and knowing that the cult would be after him until he was dead. Kjetil, with the last of his coin, ventured far south to escape the cult and start a new life for himself. If he could, that is.

Reason for Travel
With a religious warrior cult wanting his head, Kjetil needed someplace where the cult could not find them, so he ventured far south on board the Skirmisher to escape from the Wolves of Ulfric and for a new beginning if he could manage that.

Motivation/Goal
Keeping his promise to his late wife that he will live and not throw his life away for a fruitless fight. Also, seeking a new life away from the reach and eyes of the Wolves of Ulfric.

Capabilities

Years spent as a warrior in the Wolves of Ulfric had made Kjetil a strong warrior, and knows his way around several weapons, including his fists. He personally favored axes and shields. Often using his anger to unleash a fury of strong but quick blows and relies on brute force in battle. Due to his training, he has survived blows that would greatly wound others and has developed a high pain tolerance, along with being a skilled sailor from his years on raids with his fellow Norgardians.

Equipment

You will leave this blank for now.

Money

0 for the moment

Languages

Grim Northern

---

@Theyra

accepted!