Saga of the Taighean Dubha - a Reign of Winter PbP (Inactive)

Game Master Mark Sweetman

My childhood was a happy one. I lived in my father’s great hall, master of the lands which we held for the Darkwine. Igraine and I would practice our mock battles with wooden swords and shields, dreaming of the day we would stand alongside our father and take our places in the shield wall. At night we would sit by the hearth and listen to old Brengin sing and tell tales of adventure and battle, of strange creatures, daring raids, blood feuds, King’s battles with the Linnorns, and the treachery of the witches on our border.

Ironically, it was on one such night that they came. We had no warning. Our sentries had been poisoned with a sleeping draught administered in their mead by one who was once my father’s friend, now my enemy. Turlach, that accursed whoreson! I remember to this day the looks he would steal at my mother when he thought no one was watching. Even at my tender age I knew what they meant. He coveted her, and I, young fool that I was forgot those looks and never mentioned them. And so, the black-heart was able to open our gates to the enemy unhindered, without even so much as suspicion of his betrayal. The trolls, wolves, and black sorcery fueled by a witch dressed all in white fur poured in and men died. Turlach killed my father, but my mother he did not have, for she took her own life rather than fall into his clutches. Outraged, he found my sister and grabbed her and threw her across his saddle before tossing a burning torch onto the Hall, setting it ablaze. Snarling, I leapt to my feet, grabbing my father’s sword and rushed at him, but he only laughed at the puny form of a seven year old. He reached back and hurled a spear straight towards me, turning his mount around contemptuously and galloping off, his pet witch in tow, even as the spear hurtled towards its mark. It was then that the gods intervened miraculously, for this is what happened: I knew I was a dead man, for Turlach’s aim had been true, yet on I rushed. But my death was not fated for that day, for suddenly a form appeared, materializing out of the very air in front of me. A suit of spiked, iron armor, in which I swear there was no flesh. Do not look at me like that! I speak the truth, I know what I saw in my mind’s eye, and any man who says otherwise will taste the iron of my blade. For I know Gorum himself intervened that day and turned aside the spear and I was spared that my family may one day have its vengeance. Mark my words, there will be no blood price sufficient, no weregild adequate. Turlach will die by my hands. And I shall discover what has happened to my sister.

I lay in the snow as the wind howled about, the heat from the burning hall at my back likely the only thing that saved me from a frozen death. The next day I was rescued by a man of the Blackravens. Took me in, fed me, nursed me to health. Raised me I guess you’d say. Now that I am older, I’ve taken the oaths, both to the Ravens and to the Shrine of Gorum. My unique… talents as one initiated into the god’s mysteries give me unique strengths in the cause of rooting out the agents of Irrisen for the Blackravens – and that in turn gives me unique opportunities to search for my hated enemy. That is how I came to be here in Heldren. The Ravens stationed me here these past few weeks. Something is afoot. I will hunt and fight my people’s enemies and in so doing find my sister. I will build my reputation and a warband of my own. When I am strong Turlach will die.

Traits:
Positive: Thorolf is extremely loyal and dependable to those he trusts
He is also hard working and pursues tasks tirelessly.

Negative:
He can be rather stubborn and bull-headed once he’s set on an idea.
His extreme seriousness can sometimes be off-putting to others. He also tends to be bitter regarding the death of his parents

Around his neck was hangs by leather thong a gift from his father – a small amulet made of whale bone cut and shaped into the likeness of a longship. This was passed down from his grandfather (a successful raider) to his father and then to Thorolf when he was a boy. (inherited item)

Traits Deft Dodger (by virtue of a lifetime of combat), Northern Ancestry (being a native)

Domain: Rage (SubDestruction)

Trained skills w/ ranks:
Diplomacy, Disguise,Intimidate, K Religion, Perception,Sense Motive, Stealth, Survival

Feats: Judgment Surge (bonus to be determined)

Olaf is fascinated by the heroes of the Old Sagas... They were true warriors! He is immensely interested in any stories that he can find, or even better, any physicaly evidence which can corroborate the truth of the Sagas. As such, one of the quickest ways to earn his friendship is to be a fellow Skald, or someone who simply knows a different version of a story he already knows.

Still, the fact that his people have survived, despite terrible, nigh-insurmountable, odds, has put Olaf in mind of the Old Sagas, and has him at least partially convinced that he and his people are creating their own, 'new' one. Thus, Olaf can be a touch foolhardy at times, as he believes that the Gods are on his side, and thus he *must* succeed; more terrible odds simply means a more glorious story.

However, growing up in a town effectively under siege has also produced something of a 'survivalist' mentality in Olaf; he sees all people as having set roles in society - roles which are essential for community survival. Thus, when he encounters strangers who do not readily fit in to one of the categories he is used to, he can become rather confused.

Olaf is also more than a little fond of mead, which is unfortunate, as he can be a tad... adventurous when intoxicated; on more than one occasion after a big celebration, some of his friends have had to tackle him to the ground, and lock him up to prevent him from running off to create 'a new saga!'. It does not help that he rarely remembers these occasions...

Believing that a warrior and a skald should lead by example, he always make sure that he is clean (typically through liberal use of Prestidigitation), but makes no effort to hide or mend the battle scars to his body, or his equipment - both are badges of honor, and proof of his warrior status.

Still, Olaf grew-up being proud of his heritage; his people were strong, and they did not bow-down in the face of adversity. Gathered around the cooking fires in the evening, he would listen to the stories of the Old Times, and the Warriors that had come before, with open-mouthed admiration. Despite the hardship, however, there was still time for merriment; Olaf remembers playing in the snow as a boy, something which the Elders tolerated, as it helped to harden the children up, and as he grew older, and became recognised as a Warrior, he would go out on hunting parties that crossed the border, and would compete with the other warriors to collect the most goblin heads.

Of course, although he would never admit it to the others, Olaf never felt more alive than when he was 'chilled to the bone', especially when he crossed over the border... There was something in the frozen north which called to him on a visceral level.

Although a competent warrior, Olaf's main interest was following in the footsteps of his father Erik, a well-respected Skald who was the primary Keeper of the village's oral traditions. The Epics of Old always fascinated Olaf, and he itched to learn more, hopefully even eventually being worthy of one of his own.

He started to form a habit of going on wide-ranging patrols, either to hunt, visit distant villages, or simply for the opportunity to explore more of the world around him. Although he could be gone for days, weeks, or even months at a time, he always returned home in time for the Autumnal Equinox, one of the changing points of the year, and one which inevitably heralded the onset of a new season of assaults by forces from across the border, and always returned with a few new stories to tell, and more than one new scar, each with its tale.

The feeders of ravens gathered, to tend to their wounded, and see what could be done to fix the barricade, whilst the enemy dead were piled outside, and left for the swans of blood. They always fed well at that time of year..."

==DEFENSE==
AC 20, 12 touch, 18 flatfooted (7 armor, 1 dex, 2 Shield)
hp 12 (10 hd, 1 favored class, 2 con, 3 feat)
Fort 4 Ref 1 Will 2 (+2 vs Death Effects)
Takes +1 damage from Cold Iron Weapons.

==OFFENSE==
Spd 20 ft
Melee Battleaxe +4 1d8+3/x3
Melee Greataxe +4 1d12+4/x3
Melee Club +4 1d6+3
Ranged Club +2 1d6+3
Ranged Sling +2 1d4+3

==STATISTICS==
Str 16, Dex 12, Con 12, Int 11, Wis 10, Cha 18
Base Atk +1,Cmb +4 Cmd 15

Feats Fey Foundling, Power Attack

Languages Common, Skald

Traits Northern Ancestry, Divine Artist

Trained Skills[3] Diplomacy +8, Knowledge Religion +4, Perform Singing +9

Untrained Skills Acrobatics -3, Climb -1, Perception +0, Sense Motive +0, Ride -3, Stealth -3, Swim -1

Equipment
Breastplate 200gp
Armored Kilt 20gp
Heavy Wooden Shield 7gp
Cold Iron Battleaxe 10gp
Greataxe 40gp
Club
Sling
Bullets, Sling (20) 2sp
Bullets, Sling Cold Iron (20) 4sp
Backpack 2gp
Bedroll 1sp
Explorer's Outfit
Cold Weather Outfit 8gp
Cleats 5gp
7gp 3sp

Long ago, in winter's heart,
when hunger and darkness beckoned,
set out into the fiercest snows,
a man called Faraldr the Fecund.
Winter may be be beautiful,
but it always takes a toll!

He struggled on in direst need,
despite the cold and travail,
he had fourteen hungry sons to feed,
and could not afford to fail!
Winter may be merciless,
but the strong will still survive.

Then as winter closed upon his heart,
stealing away all his vigor,
through the ever whirling snows,
he spied a terrible and lovely figure.
Winter may be wonderful,
but there always a price to pay.

She came out of the blizzards depths,
beauty so cruel it bought pain,
and as she walked ice form in her steps,
and she sang out this refrain.
Winter may be terrible,
but there always is a way.

Father of starving sons let me intervene,
I shall offer you a perfect deal.
Give me one son for your fourteen,
I'll see they do not miss a meal.
Winter may be hungry,
but those who would live must feed.

And so he lay upon a bed of snow and ice,
and gave to her his vaunted seed,
though he cursed her terrible price.
Thinking of his family he bitterly did concede.
Winter may perilous,
but its not immune to need.

Snows abated swiftly, she faded like a dream.
He found himself beside a great white stag,
red blood upon the snow, and rising from it steam.
Fourteen little lives saved, for one frigid shag!
Winter may be long and dark,
but it the end it to must flee.

Winter passed and spring did come between,
then summer's beautiful blazing days.
Autumn came, gods forgive a man fathering fourteen,
even if he forgot the price he still pays.
Winter may be gone for now,
but its never long away.

As chill returned Faraldr went abroad,
to gather wood to fuel the dwindling fire.
Turning then he saw her, whose price he ignored,
cradling two babes sired by their desire.
Winter may be frigid,
but death is not her goal.

A bargain struck a price you paid,
I can take no more, I have my son,
this one yours, raise him or to the blade,
I have my son now the deed is done.
Winter may be heartless,
but she still reigns supreme.

Faraldr found himself a father to fifteen.
Fourteen healthy hearty boys, strong and warm,
one who waited for the snows recalling what had been.
And to one Winter sang calling with each storm.
Winter may be a nightmare,
but to some it is also a dream.

Winter's son named Randvér, aware of his limitation,
a poor and lonely singer, who for you performs,
songs and sagas to conjure up, a pale imitation,
of stories done, and Winter's majestic forms.
Winter may be bitter,
but who can deny her majesty?

Winter may be beautiful, but she always takes a toll.
Winter may be merciless, but the strong will still survive.
Winter may be frigid, but death is not her goal.
Winter may be terrible, but the great will always thrive.
Winter may be perilous, but its not immune to need.
Winter may be heartless, but she still reigns supreme.
Winter may be hungry, but those who would live must feed.
Winter may be a nightmare, but for some it is also a dream.
Winter may be wonderful, but there's always a price to pay.
Winter may be long and dark, but it the end it to must flee.
Winter may be gone for now, but its never long away.
Winter may be bitter, but who can deny her majesty?

Faraldr proved fruitful, and with scare rest in between, Heilvé had birthed eight sons. Thorgar bleak and bold, Ágeirr quick and stubborn, Almgautr cautious and clever, Hrafn crude and mirthful, Humli guileful and fierce, Jarni simple and loyal, Kali ugly and wise, Magnus surly and shy. Faraldr's sons grew like ivy, owning their father's power and vicious ire. Then broken Heilvé begged reprieve and Faraldr to soothe his ears agreed to fill her but once more with his seed. But such his vigor, and to forever seal his fame, he gave her not one babe but five.

Earning the name Faraldr the Fecund, he named the babes to light his feat, Ein, Tveir, Thrir, Fjorir, and Fimm. Each of these sons was strong, but they fought from tit to cradle, and would grew to be cruel terrors the like Whiterook had never seen.

Exhausted Heilvé called Agithra, the midwife and finally had her administer the herb teas known as Womb Blight. So it seemed that their brood would be capped at fourteen. Life was hard with fourteen sons and Faraldr was forced to spend much of his time hunting to feed his brood.

Then came the longest winter, anyone in Whiterook had ever seen, when the quintuplets were scarcely weaned, and well into spring the snows abided. Carefully rationed stores dwindled and much as Heilvé begged of their neighbors - for Faraldr would not - there was nothing to spare. His sons wailing for the hollow churning in their bellies Faraldr was forced to set out hunting, as much to escape their wailing as in real hope of finding quarry.

He slogged through the swirling snows feeling the cold cut to his bone, and when he thought he must turn back and watch his sons die, or else meet his end in the snows he spied a figure. Beautiful and terrible, she was a haughtily beautiful woman, but alien and gleaming with skin covered in the thinnest sheen of ice. Fey. She offered him a bargain, if he would give her a single son she would save his fourteen. So he laid with her in the snows, and when he awoke the snows were melting away and a great white stag lay dead beside him. Dragging the beast home, and feeding his family, he did his best to forget the bargain.

The next year in the depths of winter he was hunting again, though the day was clear and fresh. A sudden blizzard enveloped him and fear stirred his heart, as the Fey he had come to think of as the Ice Queen came to him again. This time she clutched two pale babes and gave one to him, saying that their bargain had only been for one child and that he might do as he wished with the other. He tried to kill the babe in the snows, but its face was impossibly fair, and so cursing he took it up and bore it home.

Heilvé loved the babe all the more for the fact it had not come from herself, and was relieved to finally hear the tale that had darkened Faraldr's temper for a year. She named him Randvér for her Uncle who had died in the snows and doted on the beautiful babe, causing the five to come to hate him for stealing their mother.

As Randvér grew he stood out amongst his brothers like a diamond amongst river stones. While he shared their power he had none of their brute countenance, and his hair was silken bronze to their bristly flame red straw. The eldest of his brothers loved him well, but the five born together tormented him and as they grew and his older brothers came to travel out with his father Randvér's life became harder.

All of Faraldr's sons shared their father's prowess in battle, but Thorgar grew to resent his father's curt commands. At fourteen Thorgar left setting out for the soft southern lands to find his fortune. He returned three years later, haunted and changed. Before leaving again he gifted Randvér with a book, The 11 Acts of Iomedae knowing his youngest brother's fondness for tales of heroism, and his oft expressed disappointment with the betrayals and evils of the Sagas heroes. Thorgar departed shortly after, and in time wrought his own dark legend as Thorgar the Childeater.

The Acts were a comfort to Randvér as one by one his beloved older brothers left him to the merciless company of the five. They would beat him every day, knowing that so long as the wounds they inflicted were not obvious their father would take no action, and ignoring their mother's pleading. Eventually he began to slip away each day hiding about Whiterook, only to be hunted by the five.

At seven years old he was saved from another brotherly beating by the skald Vragi Ironjaw. The old singer and storyteller carried him to his hut and his eyes gleamed fury as Randvér told the tale of his woes. From then on Randvér fled to Vragi, helping him with his chores even as the skald taught him the sagas and the songs. Randvér proved to have a beautiful voice, but he knew well what his father thought of singers and kept his new talent hidden.

But all too soon the five, hunts thwarted heard his singing and told their father. Faraldr forbade Vragi from teaching his sons and delivered a vicious beating. Shortly after a song emerged about Whiterook's Rutting Bull, that painted Faraldr as an oversexed idiot stumbling from one foolishness to another. Faraldr sought out Vragi for vengeance but found the old man fled. And forever after that the mocking song, which became a great favorite, haunted Faraldr.

Again the prey of his five cruel brothers Randvér then met a girl named Halla. Halla hid from her drunken father and his angry fists, and the two soon became fast friends brought together by their flight. Halla turned into a pretty girl, tall and curvacious yet strong and she and Randvér loved each other dearly. He showed Halla his prized possession The Acts of Iomedae and she became so enthused with the goddess that she swore she would one day take up her call as a holy warrior of the light. Randvér promised he would accompany her and sing of her deeds.

As Randvér reached his tenth spring his father judged him old enough to begin training in the arts of battle with his brothers. But where all of his brothers would also accompany his father out hunting Faraldr forbade Randvér to do so fearing that his inhuman blood would draw queer things to them. Randvér was glad of these times for they enabled him to sing for Heilvé and Halla and recover from the brutal assaults of the five in training.

Last winter the five caught Halla, and took her. Distraught, and believing Randvér would think her tainted by his loathsome brothers she fled out into the snows. Only the next morning did her father declare her absence and only then did Thrir mock Randvér with their foul deed. And in a moment Randvér could truly see the evil in his brother, and he challenged him. Thrir called to the five, but Faraldr heard his call and raged that if they wished to stand as one man he would see they had only one head and one sword arm. He gave Randvér his axe of cold iron and his youngest son fought transformed and smote Thrir severing his arm and leaving him to bleed, running out to into the growing snow storm to seek Halla.

As ever the cold meant little to him, for his wintry heritage protected him, and he struggled onwards against the winds. But he was no hunter or woodsman and could never follow a trail in such snows. But he would not relent and through the night he sought her. Finally in the pale light of dawn he came across her lying in the snow, cold and still. He gathered her to him and tried to give her his own warmth, but she was gone. He carried her home in his arms.

When he returned he found that the five had been banished, and so robbed of his vengeance he collapsed. Though he knew great despair he promised himself that he would one day take up both Halla's vow in her memory, for Iomedae had given him the strength to smite his brother and see true evil he was sure.

But without Halla everything seemed dark and Whiterook a place haunted by painful memories. So he took his leave of a tearful Heilvé, well wishing brothers, and a stern Faraldr who gifted him with his cold iron axes, cautioning him to watch for the Fey who would not easily relinquish one with ties to them. He wore the battered breastplate that had endured so much punishment with him in training, and a warm wolf pelt sewn into a cloak for him by Heilvé and set out into the world.

But when he reached Heldren something called him to stay, perhaps he needed to overcome his grief before he could truly set out to serve Iomedae. So he asked the Master of the Silver Stoat if he might find work for him, as a singer and a hand. After hearing Randvér sing the man gladly agreed, and he has served there since as entertainer, as lugger of barrels, and a watchful eye - and never had there been one better at spotting trouble makers.

He loves to sing and compose songs of great adventure, but is self conscious about the notion of relaying his own exploits. His good looks and inability to grow a proper beard make him feel less of a man than his Ulfen peers and reminders of both sting. He believes the powers granted to him by Iomedae were truly supposed to be for Halla, and so strives to honor them and preserve them while taking no credit for them.

Currently he feels lost, something he does not understand keeps him in Heldren and he cannot determine whether it is a failing upon his part or Iomedae's will.

Randvér is loving, quick to see the best traits in people and draw them out. He will empathize with others when he can, but trusts his goddess to tell him when someone is evil, though he knows that evil does not mean unredeemable.

Randvér is sheltered, despite the hardships he endured he was essentially confined to Whiterook for the majority of his life and knows little of the world beyond that does not come from songs or stories. He can be naive and although his heritage protects him from the cold he knows little of the hardships of nature.

Only a few generations ago, Ulfen longboats regularly plundered the Southern lands, taking treasure, supplies -- and slaves. Today, except for the raiders of Broken Bay, the Linnorm Kingdoms present a more civilized face to their southern neighbors, but the populace is still laced with those whose coloring and features betray the ancestry of other peoples and tribes.

Among these is Halla Ingendatter: although born in the north, her dark hair and pale olive tint to her skin mark her as a child of thralls and not a pure-blooded Ulfen, but her difference is far more than physical. Since before she formed conscious memories, she has been haunted by dreams, of laughter and dances, swirling scarves of bright colors, and voices speaking a language she's never heard but understands just the same. She has come to known one voice above all others over the years of her life: a woman named Maeve. She was an ever-present playmate and guardian, expecially after her mother fell through thin ice one late spring and was drowned in the pond. Maeve taught her songs and steps of dances she could barely perform in her heavy cloth boots. The other thralls thought she was fey-touched or bewitched and kept their children away, but as long as she had Maeve for company she didn't care.

By the time she had lived through fourteen winters, she was judged strong enough to work in the fields during the short growing season, and her time for songs and dances was over. The master of the farmstead pushed the thralls to plant as soon as the frozen ground would not break the plow and to harvest through every hour of daylight before the frost returned and robbed him of his investment. When she slept, she was too tired to dream.

The long winters were worse than the short summers. No longer housed with the children and nursing mothers but with the female laborers, she found how the master's guests and retainers passed the long nights after drinking in the stead. When there were no wolves or monsters to track and slay, the thralls were expected to provide both warmth and "hospitality." Although she bit her tongue to keep silent, in her head she could hear Maeve screaming.

By her second winter in the women's house, she knew several of the nightly visitors. Many were bumbling but well-intentioned, bringing presents of fur-lined boots and fresh venison to pay for their favors; others were boorish and cruel, caring only for their satisfaction and walking away as if the women were no more than domestic animals. Worse even than the latter were those who refused to treat the affair like the transaction it was, expecting the women to lie in their arms and whisper flattering endearments as if they were wives or sweethearts rather than chattel; that was a cruel mummery. Halla learned to lie or be punished for recalcitrance, but she never learned to like it. Inside her mind, her resentment grew, burning like the campfires around which the dancers whirled in her dreams.

One night when it was near time to plant, he sought her out again, in a corner of the stead, had his way and wouldn't leave, insisting she smile and tease at the hair on his chest, coo at his arrogant bragging about the great deeds he was sure he would do, pretend to have been impressed and pleasured by his violation. In her mind, Maeve spit curses; the fire burned brighter. "Lilleravn," he grinned at her, using a pet name she despised as he presented his chin, "braid my beard for me, as the dwarf maidens do for their heroes who go off to battle."

In Halla's ears rung wild music; in her hand in the darkness, she suddenly felt metal. Her fingers closed around it and slashed viciously at his naked throat, and she felt the hot spray of his blood. Struggling from beneath his weight as he rolled away from the attack, she got to her feet and a voice -- Maeve's -- poured from between her lips, full of outrage and scorn: "Ez zen ona zuretzat?"*

The outbuilding was dark, and the injury to his throat left him gurgling and unable to call for help; no one had yet noticed what she had done. Grabbing her boots, she silently wrapped herself in his cloak and made for the door, hoping she would be taken for one of the spent men going back to the main house. Outside in the moonlight, she paused a moment to see what was in her hand: a strange weapon, a central metal ring with four protruding blades like a star. It would be death for a thrall to be found in possession of a metal weapon, even if it were not covered in the blood of a warrior. She dropped it on the frost-covered mud, and within seconds it melted away like a late-spring snow when the sun rises.

Unwilling to face punishment for her deed, she set out across the frozen countryside, hoping that the master would not go to the trouble to release the dogs for a single female thrall likely to die by exposure or wild beast all the same. She headed for the nearest town, hoping that there she might beg or steal supplies before word of her crime reached Heldren. Thence, Maeve whispers to her, south to the land of her ancestor, away from the black mud and white snow to the land of whirling colors and passionate song.

*Varisian for "Was it good for you?"

Hero Lab® and the Hero Lab logo are Registered Trademarks of LWD Technology, Inc. Free download at http://www.wolflair.com
Pathfinder® and associated marks and logos are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC®, and are used under license.

Halla is stoic, and Maeve is stubborn. Both see revealing vulnerability or asking for help as a weakness. She is slow to trust and slower to accept the charity of others.

That same stubbornness, however, gives her resilience and determination. She will not give up on a goal, no matter how many obstacles interpose themselves; she will pick herself up, find another way around, and keep going.

In Maeve's spirit burns a passion for the underdog. While Halla might be inclined to keep walking past an injustice and avoid getting involved, Maeve will not let her rest about it. As such, she is likely to act compassionately, albeit somewhat coldly and reluctantly. When Maeve is more in control, as in combat, she is more likely to take risks to help others.

"They say I was born dead, came out with the cord wrapped around my neck like a noose around a hanged man's throat. Many of the women said it was as well, being the daughter of no one as I was and the dark hair on my head marking me as of impure provenance; the fates meant ill for me, and they might as well claim me sooner than later. But one old midwife untangled me, took me outside and plunged me into the snow, rubbing off the blood and afterbirth with handfuls of ice. The cold of the land was stronger than the cold of the grave, and I cried out. Then she took me inside and wrapped me in cloth and gave me to my mother. It wasn't until after I was washed in snow and had taken my first breath that they saw the purple mark on my shoulder...."

• Is Caerb a stealthy rogue? - if so, how does he account for the relatively musky odour he likely emits?
  
• What happened to Caullyn's red cap? - and does Caerb desire to create one of his own?
  
• Does Caerb pay homage to any deities?

• The backstory with flightiness reads a bit more Desnan that Calistrian to me. Did you consider going with Desna as the primary god?
  
• Has she taken on any Ulfen traditions / mindset - or does she remain Tian?
  
• How does the familiar play into her story?

• How did Hinrik act while his birth father slew the wolf and took him away?
  
• How does he view creatures like wolves or bears with respect to being unarmed? - or is it only men without steel that don't get attacked?
  
• What sort of hide is his armor made of?

• How does Markus refer to himself? - as Halfhand?
  
• What is his opinion of the fey? - has he run afoul of them in the past?

• Skane is on his way back northwards... why? - to make a name or to retire?
  
• The white lion of taldor on his shield... will he retain that?
  
• Does he blow smoke rings? - or is the pipa more for mollifying herbs?

• How do you reconcile Sven's opinion of all men being fundamentally good, being a Paladin and serving as a mercenary?
  
• What was his call to take up the Paladin's mantle? - and what god does he venerate?
  
• He has the Oath of Vengeance... against what does he seek revenge?

• How does Annalisa view gnomes, dwarves and creatures of the fey?
  
• Did she leave home with the blessings of her parents?
  
• I note you've got Throw Anything and Catch Off-Guard - what improvised stuff does she like throwing around or hitting people with?

• How well known would the prophecy she received be? - and would it be tied to her by name or by a pseudonym?
  
• Does she carry any fey-borne superstitions or mannerisms? such as hiding her true name or needing permission to enter a home?
  
• Very well built application by the way.
  
• When did she come to Iomedae's service? - does she worship the tradidional version, or more of a fey-touched interpretation?

Joanna was born the daughter of a hag of the Grungir Forest and an unfortunate merchant traveling into Kalsgard. The man never survived the night he was to lay with the hag, but this was a mercy for him, to live as an object of a hags affections and is not a kind fate. The daughter wasn't to be born a midst the forest. As was tradition she would be left at the door of a stranger to be raised until she was ready to return to her mother.

Joanna was a gift, a crying screaming barely clothed gift but a gift nonetheless. Left upon the door of Jarvastala former adventurer now turned barkeep a man who had recently lost the love of his life. She was raised to be the daughter the man never had. For so many years she lived the semblance of a normal life. When questioned upon whom she was her -father- would laugh and jokingly say she was his daughter from a forgotten conquest. But yet she stood out with her small frame pale skin, and discolored eyes many in the village believe her to be cursed. Jarvastala (while a man of action in his prime) was not one to have his daughter be cast as a villain. He did his best to help her get past the stigma of the town encouraging her to be someone who wasn't afraid of the opinions of others. She never was truly accepted into the town but she did all in her power to fit in.

This changed when she reached the edge of her puberty, she received the -calling- as all changelings do. Her mother had prepared a special ritual for her newest child. The hag needed a tool to add to her growing coven, a weapon to wield against her rivals. Her daughter was the perfect candidate. She would give her daughter a portion of her power and prowess enough to make her a fearsome warrior but at the same time strip away her intellect and freedom of thought.

Joanna was already subject to the calling she had questions that needed to be answered.
When Joanna stumbled into her mothers camp she was nothing but a thrall. Everything was in order, however. Jarvastalar had followed his daughter into the depths of the Grungir and came upon the hag as she conducting her ritual.

Jarvastala was a warrior in his prime but now he was nothing but a shadow of his former glory. He charged into battle nonetheless he had lost his wife and he had no intention of losing his only kin. He fought against the hag amidst the ritual his sword and steel clashing with her fang and claw. The hag was weakened but not without tools to cut the man down, as she lunged forward to slit the man's throat he brought his blade to bare shoving the sword deep into her gut.

The hag was the victor but her wounds were too severe she would need time to heal. Witnessing her Jarvastalar's death freed Joanna of the calling. The ritual had worn it’s course. The residual magic lingered around Joanna a blood red outline of the hag she had not become. In fury she crushed the weakened hag with her own magic.

Joanna returned to the village only briefly, to gather her essentials and leave never to return. Believing herself guilty of her fathers death she now roams from town to town seeking some meaning in her life.:

Compassionate
A person placed in exile is eager for companionship. While she is a lone traveler she does seek to learn more about others and understand what motivates them.

Negative Traits:

Warped Perspective:
She’s far to wrapped up in her own problems to realize there are others that would seek to take advantage of her. She’s gullible and over trusting especially of warrior types. (They remind her of Jarvastala)

New to Violence: She was not a career warrior or in any way of strong stock before her transformation, even now unable to make tough decisions of her own accord.

Reactionary- She lived her childhood always expecting to be blamed for the misfortunes of others. This has kept her on edge throughout her adult life.

How does Markus refer to himself?

This is a great question, and a major point of Hape's persona that I forgot to mention. To answer simply: He doesn't know what to call himself. He sees Markus Hape as a man who died long ago, but at the same time resents the title "Halfhand" that people have given him. When asked by a stranger who he is, he would usually reply evasively with something like "It doesn't matter who I am," or "Who I am is none of your concern." If pressed, he usually gets to the point of anger, verbally assaulting those who are too persistant, "I answer to no man!" In truth, he is mostly frustrated at himself. There is an irony, he recognizes, for a man to guard something with such ferocity and not actually know what it is. This reluctance to answer is the reason why many recognize him simply as "The Halfhand", a name which is more often learned from rumour and hearsay than from he himself. It is a name he dislikes, but still grudgingly accepts. If he is forced into companionship, that is the name he will give. If someone could earn his respect or trust (No easy feat, mind you) he might give them his true name.

"Who is Markus Hape?" the question tears at him, and is one that occurs frequently throughout his journal. One day, he hopes, he will be able to answer this question with conviction. Will he be able to sieze that humanity he has lost, become what he could have once been and be able to say, with strength, "I am Markus Hape." Or will he shed that guise completely and give in to the hunger and darkness that is "The Halfhand"? It's something that I would love to be able to get the chance to explore.

Summary, in case my spiel just confused things: He doesn't give out his name, but will take the reputation-given moniker "The Halfhand" if he needs to have extended interaction with people. If he trusts someone, he may give them his true name.

What is his opinion of the fey? - has he run afoul of them in the past?

More than anything, the Fey are what keep Markus up at night. They are the creatures that haunt his dreams, the fuel of his paranoia. Trolls can be tricked. Wolves can be trapped. You can hide from the footfalls of giants, or the eyes of a wandering dragon. But you cannot hide from Fey. They are like ghosts in the taiga, things that cannot be measured or understood nearly as well as he would like. It is this mystique that terrifies him. If knowledge is power, then Hape is a helpless babe before them, ready to be snatched and lifted away. Hape needs things to be able to quantify things. He fears the cold, he fears the winter wolves, yes, but he knows how to deal with them. Even devils seem less fearsome to him than these enigmatic beings.

As for encounters with them, he has done his best to avoid provoking them. He knows his magic pales in comparison to theirs, and he would not likely live the encounter. He gathers what little he can from the folklore of the towns he visits, taking care not to step on mounds or disturb faerie rings. He doesn't necessarily believe in these superstitions, but he is cautious enough not to risk it. He has seen the Fey in their environment before - a glowing sprite floating through the woods, a beautiful huldra bathing in a spring, but he has sought to avoid them at all costs. What really nags at him, however, is the thought that perhaps the Fey were the ones who saved him. He never did learn how it came to be that he was pulled onto the banks of the river, rather than drown in their depths. There were no men around, no footprints in the mud. All he remembers is a glowing light, and a soft chittering which may just have been a product of his imagination. He hates it when his thoughts drift to this, however. If the fey had saved him, rather than the hand of lady luck, then they would have had reason to do so. It makes him ill to think that perhaps he's a pawn in some chaotic game, or that perhaps one day one of the fair folk would appear to claim their due. "Your life was spared on a whim, human. Just as easily can it be taken away.", or something like that. You can do whatever you like with that. Or nothing. It's better if I don't know.

In her youth, Rannveig was the pride of her family. She was pure as the morning after snowfall and beautiful as the flight of swans, but she was naive. Sheltered by her doting father, she knew little of the dangers that could wait in the wide world, and remained that way for nearly twenty years.

And so it was that one evening, out gathering firewood, Rannveig wandered too far into the forest wilderness. In a clearing, she came across a hut, a crude cabin she had never seen before. The door creaked open, and a woman emerged. Her face was beautiful, as beautiful as Rannveig's, but where Rannveig's beauty was born of the bloom of youth and innocence, hers was the lean, graceful beauty of a predator. She took in the girl before her, and her mouth cracked in a hunter's smile, all teeth and no warmth. She said no words, but tilted her head, and from deep in the cabin there rose a growl. Out of the darkness, a huge wolf stepped into the light. It stood nearly the height of a man, and its anger was palpable - but it was old. Its fur was patchy with age, and once great muscles had begun to sink. Rannveig sank to her knees, cowering, terrified beyond belief.

"Why do you shiver, pretty thing?" the witch - for witch she must be - said, her voice a throaty purr filled with primal desire and the promise of danger. She lowered her chin, staring at Rannveig with eyes the girl could now see were yellow and shone with the same light as the wolf's.

"We do not hunt for meat tonight."

The girl's eyes rose, flinching as she met the witch's gaze. Tears streaked her face, but hope was in her eyes when she asked, "Y...you do not?"

"Oh, no, pretty thing. But you shiver so. You must grow cold. Come in," she gestured behind her to the cabin's dark depths, "And we shall warm you by the fire."

Rannveig knew that to go inside would be the utmost folly, but she had grown very cold. Somehow, she felt that she must go inside, must or she would freeze. Her limbs jerked, taking her forward, her mind fogged as if in a dream, until she found herself inside the hut. Inside, there was indeed a fire, but it did not give warmth. It burned with the frozen light of ice, and illuminated a five-pointed star on the floor, bound in a softly glowing circle. The girl shuddered, and halted for a brief moment, but the witch murmured something low and the wolf growled, and the girl stepped forward again. She stopped within the confines of the circle, and her mind and body were her own once more. She did not shriek, or fall again, but turned and looked at the witch with despair in her eyes.

"What will you do with me?" she asked, resigned to whatever horrible fate was planned for her. The witch merely grinned her mirthless grin and sank into a crouch, murmuring in a growling tongue. It was then that the magic took hold in truth, and Rannveig did fall then, howling in pain. She dropped to her hands and knees and shook wildly, her hair flying in all directions. The wolf trembled, too, its legs giving way, and then the circle flared with light and Rannveig knew no more.

When she awoke, the world had changed. Colors had drained away, yet everything seemed sharper, cleaner. She stood, feeling within herself a power and a hunger she could not remember feeling, but seemed horribly familiar. A low, sinister cackle came from behind her, and she turned her head, sensing the presence of the witch. The witch held out a hand, and Rannveig moved toward her, accepting her benediction. Without another word, they moved together out of the hut, past the body of the dead man before the hearth. The new wolf, and her mistress, went out into the world, leaving the old behind.

Thus, for many years, Rannveig's body and mind was held in thrall to the form of the wolf, doing the witch's bidding in all things. She never gave a thought to her former life, not even truly remembering it as a human would, and in her new existence, there was a dark joy to be had. Together, they did many unspeakable things, sometimes even adding to their strange pack, but it was beyond the witch's magic to bind more than one soul to her will for long.

And so it was for nearly a dozen years, but there came a time when the wolf-witch's evil became too bold, near the forest that men call Grungir. She was slain at the hands of a brave band of adventurers, and without any warning, Rannveig's mind was her own once more. Confused, still bound in the wolf's body, she ran clumsily into the night before the heroes could stop or slay her. She did not get far, her strength giving out as the magic that had fueled her for so long began to die. She whimpered, then howled, giving voice at last to the grief of a dozen long years of torment and depravity, and her call did not go unanswered.

From out of the forest came a wolf pack, free of the taint of magic. They sniffed at her, licked her wounds, and over the course of the coming nights, accepted this wolf who smelled of humans into their pack. Rannveig, for her part, was grateful for this kindness, animal-born as it was, and ran with them, giving in to the wild in her soul. It was glorious, free and unrestrained, and in a very short time, she became the leader of the pack. Her mind, so long kept in check to the witch's thrall, slowly returned to her in full, and with a human mind guiding them, the pack swiftly became a legend in those hills. It was not to last, however.

The wolf-witch's magic, strong though it was, could not long last beyond her death. It began to fade at last, and Rannveig began to return to her true form. At first, she did not understand what was happening, but as the weeks wore on, she began to run on two legs once more, and she understood. The pack, once tied to her so strongly, began to fragment; the alpha was gone, and in her place a human stood. They left her, too confused by the change to bring her down - but one remained. Her former second, a she-wolf she would perhaps have called her friend, had she been human to do so. And now she could, and did. Their bond did not end with the division of woman and wolf, but went to the soul. Wolves do not use names as humans do, and so Rannveig called her simply Ylva, meaning she-wolf in the old tongue.

Unsure, now, of where she was, or what to do in her new life, Rannveig and Ylva wandered the forest, seeking purpose. Older now, by more than a decade, returning home did not have the appeal it might have, and she felt uncomfortable, now, with being bound to one place. She had spent too long roving the country, beholden to no one, to ever want the life of a simple farmer's daughter again. And as they explored, she discovered as well a connection to the wild places of the world. She learned to call out to her pack of old, and they came to her call, although they would not stay for long. Spending so long as a creature of nature, she had become part of it, and even now it nurtured her, giving her strength and allowing her to call on its power at need. In return, she swore to protect its sanctity, and that of all its creatures.

But not all was well in the wild. Winter was coming to places it should not, and she could not discover the cause alone. She would need minds more learned than her own to discover the source and bring an end to the unnatural plague upon the land. This certainty in mind, she put aside her misgivings about returning to human lands and began to pick her way towards the lands of civilization, leaving Grungir and moving on to Southmoor. She was still ignorant of many of the ways of man and nature, but one thing she swore to be true.

If the curse of winter would overtake the world, it would first face the fury of the pack.

Despite her rough treatment at fate's hands, Rannveig remains relatively innocent. She can only remember vague flashes of her time in the witch's thrall, and her life before that was peaceful, even idyllic, and seems very long ago. To humans, this often makes her seem ignorant or childlike at times as she takes delight in the simplest of civilization's wonders. She is particularly naive of the ways of men, and nervous, even shy, around them. She is much more comfortable with women, and even more so with wolves.

In battle, though, all her reservations disappear. she is a silent terror, moving in concert with Ylva to bring down their opponents with dashing tears from both sides. Kill or be killed, there is no mercy in the justice of the wild. She would gladly sacrifice herself to protect any member of her pack, human or wolf. To do otherwise would never even occur to her, but if one should fall, she spends little time grieving. It is the way of the world, and the great cycle of nature finds us all in the end.

• Honesty: Attempting to deceive would barely even occur to Rannveig as a concept. Most of the interactions she can remember come from wolves, and such an action is entirely beyond her.
  
• Loyalty: There is no room in Rannveig's life for anyone who would not give their all for the good of the pack, and that includes herself. She will fight to the death for the slightest infraction against those she calls friends, because to her, the pack is her life.

Negative

• Naivety: The flip side of the coin, Rannveig's inability to deceive is very likely to lead her to miss deception in others. Particularly from those who walk on two legs, she is likely to judge them entirely by their actions and miss the hidden warning signs.
  
• Colorblind: Her eyes may be human again, but Rannveig still sees things in black and white. To her, things either are, or are not, and she has difficulty with the areas in between.

"Wolves do not speak as you or I. They are creatures of emotion and memory. But there is a sense that...no. You are a part of something greater. There is more than just the pack, there is the great family of all wolves, and all wolves know this, even as they sometimes fight with one another. They are bound, bound by the moon and by their ancient blood, and they do not need to speak to know it.

But they do sing. Not human songs, songs to entertain or to teach, but wolf songs, songs that tell who and what they are and bring the great family together as one. It is not language that is easy to speak with a human tongue, but this is one of their songs as best I can tell it. It is of the moon, and its kinship with them.

In forest-home of shade and stone,
the brothers run beneath black roof above.
The sky-brother calls, with light and loneliness,
to family once found, but forgotten.

He himself was near starvation at the point, and could muster little more than verbal protestations. He pounded on his father's shoulders as he was carried away, but his little fists had little effect on the large man. He ignored Vannik for weeks after that, refusing to talk to him.

-How does he view creatures like wolves or bears with respect to being unarmed? - or is it only men without steel that don't get attacked?

I'm going to change the wording to, 'attack a creature he doesn't intend to eat, outside of self defense.'

-What sort of hide is his armor made of?

Mostly layered deer hides, boiled to harden them. There are probably a few patches of boar thrown in there somewhere as well.

• Given the Ulfen preference for bearded men... how did he go about getting respect while being clean-shaven?
  
• How did the angelic figure suddenly decide to sleep with his father?
  
• Why Torag?

• How do you see the low Wisdom playing into his roleplay? - foolhardy, easy to trust and easily confused?
  
• What is his view of the fey?

• As an inquisitor, does his perception of Gorum's worship differ from doctrine in any way?
  
• With such a burning desire for vengeance on Turlach, why would he engage on a quest that will take him away from the Lands of the Linnorm Kings?

• If the ritual and the witch-suit was the cause of the loss of her father - why would she seek to use that power?
  
• You state the summoning of beasts and undead - what would be the split between synthesist form and natural form? - as in how long in each?
  
• How do you reconcile a compassionate person with the summoning of undead and clothing herself in a bloodied skeletal form?

• What sort of pelts and leather make up her clothes? (as in from what animals?)
  
• What did her father do when she was missing? - I assume that was the dead body?
  
• How did it serve the witch to bind her to being a wolfen thrall? - rather than a human one?

Living on the border of Irrisen, his only experience of Fey is as evil interlopers, and spirits which possess newborn children of the hamlet during Winter; thus, he does not like Fey, to put it mildly. According to the Old Epics, Fey are capricious tricksters at the best of times, and any sane man wants as little to do with them as possible (he won't attack Fey creatures on sight, but he would be heavily suspicious of them).

Skaldi woke to the alarm sounded by their watchman. He snatched up a few items and hurried out of his tent. A few bandits, nothing much to worry about. Still, he couldn’t sit idly by while his companions fought. He snatched a few runestones out of a small pouch on his hip, breathed the words of Calling onto them and tossed them into his sack. He tossed the sack into the fray and watched as it swelled and grew lumpy. A clawed blue hand sprung from the sack and pulled a small, wicked looking creature from the sack. Two more followed quickly after and the three of them swarmed a bandit.

The fight ended quickly and the Mites stayed about for a while, helping to clean up the bodies. As their time expired, the mites melted away, as sculptures of snow, leaving only a damp runestone in their wake. Skaldi collected his sack and rune stones and whispered a thank you to the Eldest.

---

The Beast, made of wings and teeth and claws and little else, roared again. It’s claws rang against the shield brother’s bulwark. Skaldi tugged at the braid that hung around his torso like a bandolier. He quickly broke the knot and stretched out the circled length of rope. With a practiced ease he tossed the rope, spreading it into a circle two spans wide. He thrust his fist into the pouch at his hip and drew forth a single rune. He called, loudly to the one he needed aid from and hurled the rune into the ground within the circle. The ground... folded. It caved in on itself to form a pit.

From that pit rose a meaty fist, covered in dirt and flecks of stone. Another hand joined it, holding a tree torn from the ground. The two hands pushed a giant, a true giant of the mountains, out of the pit and the ground rose with it. Swinging its tree like a club. Battle was met between giant and beast. Claws and club clashed against one another. The sound of teeth scraping against stone hurt the ear. Soon enough, the Beast tore into the chest of the giant, as the towering man fell, he burst into a deluge of meltwater. Everyone nearby was soaked by water as cold as a mountain stream. A single, small, runestone clattered to the ground beneath the slavering beast about to devour Skaldi and his companions.

---

Skaldi ground the point of his iron dagger into the meat of his palm. Blood began to pool in his palm before he set to work. He traced a circle in the ground and runes within the circle. Simple words with a simple intent, Myrkyr, I call you. and the circle frosts over. Soon it is a sheet of ice. A claw breaks through the ice and quick as a viper, a serpentine for slips out of the pool and coils around Skaldi. The Shadow speaks, though its mouth does not move. “There is work to be done.”

• What sort of pelts and leather make up her clothes? (as in from what animals?)
  Mostly these come from one deer, but there are smaller hides - rabbits and other rodents - used to fill in the gaps.

• What did her father do when she was missing? - I assume that was the dead body?
  Whoops, guess that as clear as I'd hoped. Dang, I was worried about that not getting across. No, the dead body was the previous wolf, who had outlived his usefulness. More on that in the next answer, actually. As for her father, he never found her body, and the witch moved on quickly, so he grieved for his lost daughter, presumed dead. Rannveig would probably be glad to know he was alive, but after her experiences, she was frightened by the idea of returning to her family so changed.
  I'm actually gonna go back in to the story and see if I can word this more carefully so it's more clear.

• How did it serve the witch to bind her to being a wolfen thrall? - rather than a human one?
  It benefited her in a few different ways. First, disorienting the human mind so it would more easily fall under her sway. Second, while a slip of a girl could be useful in domestic tasks, the wolf was looking for a dangerous ally instead, and once undone, she would have had a hard time recasting the spell.
  More than that, though, it's the sort of magic that particular witch had at her disposal. As I envisioned it, she'd captured the magic of a wolf (or wolf-themed, anyway) demon of some sort, and was using it to twist the minds and bodies of her victims. She would transfer it from one vessel to the next when the old one was starting to age, and the trauma of the ritual would kill the old vessel.
  On that note, she wasn't necessarily a "Witch" as in the Pathfinder class, that's just how Rannveig perceived her. It's just as likely she was some kind of wizard, or summoner, or maybe even a perverted kind of druid herself. I admit I didn't think through her mechanics too much, I just liked the story that came through and pushed the rules aside to make it happen. Sorry I didn't spell all this out, I just thought I was getting a little wordy, and tried to dial back the detail a little.

For the second question, it would really depend on the adventure path, she's more inclined to not summon the -witch- suit as you put it, in civilized area's or places where word of it could spread. She also by nature would try to avoid using the eidolon whenever possible, especially when she can summon a creature to do her fighting for her. So during political events and open road travel she'd avoid using the suit. But if she's in a dungeon she would be using both tools as best she could. Depending on the nature of the campaign this would probably be something of a 90/10 to a 70/30 of her time spent in human form to her time spent wearing her -suit-

I choose my words poorly. The proper term I would use for that trait is amicable, she's friendly and eager to meet and understand others. But she does not have a tender heart. Nor does she fell much sympathy for those she would fight.

Amicable/Curious
A person placed in exile is eager for companionship. While no stranger to being alone the months of solitude are gnawing at her, she's more than willing to listen to and speak with strangers. Caring to learn more about those in her company.

Now the question is who would I blend that with her powers? She believes only in conjuring forth what is necessary for a situation, but is unrepentant when she commits to an action. So she will avoid summoning obvious attention bringers such as an undead or donning her armor, until she is certain that those who witness the acts will keep silent, or be made silent.

Skane is on his way back northwards... why? - to make a name or to retire?

Don’t see Skane as the retiring type. My rationale behind him returning to the North was to clear the slate on his old name… his father’s… gain retribution for his mother and brother’s deaths (he fears them undead due to unhallowed burials) and should that make him a new name (be it good or ill) he cares not... but nor will he run from it.

A “named man” carries weight… is to be feared and respected… qualities the youth who fled never had and but qualities the man who returns plans to earn…

As such I’ve purposely not given him a nick name (the original character was nicknamed “Countless” - less of an ode to the amount of men felled by his axe and more to the amount of bastards sired by his father… Skane being one of the “countless” fruits of Ingvar Sharptunga’s loins) – again to “earn” a name in the game (if selected would be good fun)

My thoughts behind Skane were to channel Caul Shivers from Abercrombie’s books and Opie Winston from Sons of Anarchy. A man whose sole talent in life is violence, but not one he welcomes or is proud of (again very un-Viking like…)… a cold killer – metaphorically and literally! Skane is also doggedly loyal – he’s not a loose cannon or a wild rager… far from it. He’s learned the value of comrades in arms and also being clinical in his trade and relationships.

Two quotes summarize him best from the above sources;
When asked in the show by an ex-wife whether he ever loved her, Opie told her “he didn’t think he loved anything anymore”.

As for Shivers…

Culfer gave a thin scream. A narrow split had appeared in his shoulder, right down to his chest, splinters of white bone showing through it. Wetterlant wanted to tell him not to scream in a manner so unbefitting of an officer in the King’s Own. A scream like that might be good enough for one of the levy regiments, but in the Sixth he expected a manly roar. Culfer almost gracefully subsided to the ground, blood bubbling from the wound, and a large Northman stepped up with an axe in his fist and began to cleave him into pieces.

Wetterlant was vaguely conscious that he should have jumped to the aid of his second-in-command. But he seemed unable to move, fascinated by the Northman’s expression of business-like calm as he dismembered Wetterlant’s second in command. Like a bricklayer getting a difficult piece of wall to fit his high standards. Eventually satisfied by the number of pieces he had made of Culfer who still, impossibly, seemed to be making a quiet squealing sound, he turned to look at Wetterlant.

The far side of his face was crossed by a giant scar, a bright ball of dead metal in his eye socket.

Oooooooohhhhhh. Heh... now that's what I'm aiming for with Skane :)

The white lion of taldor on his shield... will he retain that?

White lion of Taldor is a symbol of where he has been, where Skane has campaigned and earned his craft since leaving the North. The Ulfen there may well have been more welcoming than his own folk from Bildt and as such has no qualms about carrying the symbol. Had mulled over having the shield also carry a rune or two, but Skane is an unsentimental bastard and should it be sundered is just as likely to pluck another from a corpse’s arm.

Does he blow smoke rings? - or is the pipa more for mollifying herbs?

Heh. The pipa could well be for pacificational purposes. Don’t see Skane being particularly religious but he does (ironically) feel in touch with his ancestral grandfather when he smokes… but smoking the pipa is one of the few pleasures he has (if not the only pleasure he has)…

15 Point Build: 5 points – STR & CON; 2 points – DEX, WIS & CHA; -1 point - INT
STR 16 DEX 12 CON 14
INT 9 WIS 12 CHA 12

20 Point Build: 7 points – CON; 5 points – STR; 3 points – DEX, CHA; 2 points – WIS;
STR 16 DEX 13 CON 15
INT 10 WIS 12 CHA 13

25 Point Build: 7 points – STR & CON; 5 points – DEX; 3 points – WIS & CHA;
STR 17 DEX 14 CON 15
INT 10 WIS 13 CHA 13

What I've not factored in is Skane broken down body (not sure if you liked the idea of a Middle Aged Body on a young head (would just take the physical penalties - yup I am the anti-optimiser lol)

Starting Feats: Berserker’s Cry & Improved Shield Bash. Plan on taking Shield Focus, Saving Shield & Power Attack as progression feats.

Oh and for the record... He'll be sporting a Neutral Alignment with a Chaotic bent...

While many Ulfen wear pale skin. Klò's skin is paler still. Nearly that of the snow. Or – as is often whispered as wary Hagsreachmen observe – the skin of an ice giant. His hair, long and unkempt, is white as well, though when the sun hides behind cloud or horizon, a touch of winter's blue can be seen.

His watchful, wary eyes – a brown so dark as to seem black – peer out of an over-long and scarred face. A face which seems longer still on his thick neck bearing a strange rune-shaped birthmark on the right side.

His clothes, a mix of thick cloth and furs, are simple and well-tended. His armor is all of natural materials. And with the exception of one giant-sized shortsword (crudely regripped for his hands) hanging across his back, his weapons appear to be chosen for flexible, utilitarian use. (I haven't actually done any gear purchasing, but this is how he'll choose gear… at least at the beginning of his adventuring career.)

Personality & how he comports with others and his environment
Klò is most comfortable in the wilds, and is savagely fierce in battle. Though where men gather and stack stones for towers, homes, and castles, Klò wears a mask of reserve. And his size – a boon in his cold, northern wilds – becomes an insecure lumber in 'civilized' places. He is slow to give trust, though not necessarily overly suspicious. He's quick to question laws and traditions, slow and methodical in thought, and has a surprising level of awareness and patience for one so young. He's a natural outsider, but is surprisingly quick to stand for those who find themselves similarly on the outside of what is commonly accepted.

His Background
Kló was born in the southeastern regions of Hagsreach. And as is often the case with lives lived around the edges of Irrisen's reach, the story begins with pain, blood, and horrors. Kló doesn't know the details, but he was orphaned before he really had any solid memories. He just has snatches of memories, really. A mother's smile. The sound of a laugh. And – unfortunately – the sounds of pain and screaming. She was killed as part of a raid when he was little, and he was found, screaming, in the blood-doused snow of the aftermath.

And, like many children with similar stories, he was found and brought to another village to be raised. The problem, however, was that it was quickly recognized that something about the boy was different. He was big, and only got bigger as he aged. And strong. And that would be okay if that were the extent of hs differences. But his birthmark – a reddish mark in the shape of a bear's claw on his neck and left palm – made people uncomfortable. That and his coloring. He was nearly as pale as the snow, and had a blue tint to his hair… similar to that of his heritage – the frost giants. (My suggestion is that this lineage is something that was passed down from earlier generations… not some kind of horrible rape situation… which i can't even fathom how a woman would survive.)

So he quickly became an outsider. Yes, there were people who were kind to him, but they were rare. He wore the features and size of some of his fellow Ulfen's most hated foes. As he came of age, it was a natural fit for him to spend more and more time outside the village walls. Both because he didn't' have to deal with bullying or threats (of which there was plenty despite his size) and because something about it just felt… right. Villages and cities were full of loud noises and uncomfortable looks. The snow beneath his feet, the ice-blue sky above, the smell of the ever-greens; these things felt right. Comfortable.

So it was that he became a natural tracker, fisher, and hunter in his early teenage years. Many young boys are taught these skills by parents and brothers. They were hard-earned for Kló, though, and he cherished them all the more for it.

His life would be one lived outdoors, and he was happy with that reality.

Then came that night, the fight, and the Old Man (See the Story, spoilered below). Something awoke in Kló. Something he'd always knew was there. Something he'd half-feared and half-clung to whenever he was in danger. But that night changed him and set his feet on a new path. Set him on a hunt that will change his life forever, and alter who Kló could become.

And that hunt has brought him to southern Hagsreach, on the border of the great forest to the south. The Old Man's instructions had sent him here, and Kló seeks his goals with a single-minded focus and unwavering progress of one of the great northern glaciers. (The point here is to give you, VoV, a way to give me specific instructions to tie me into the plot if you'd like to, but at the same time allow it to be a personal motivation for Kló)

Two positive & two negative traits
Kló is patient, considering, and self-aware. Years wondering why he was left as an outsider when he had done nothing wrong has caused him to always ask "why" behind people's motivations or intentions. Additionally, the great strength that has allowed him to survive so far can also – if left unchecked – easily lead to pain on the part of those around him. So he's surprisingly careful physically when people aren't in danger.

Unfortnately, Kló has a general distrust for civilization. Any one person can usually be reasoned with if you can keep their attention long enough. But when people get together, especially in social settings, they become something different. Like a herd of rabid animals. They pick at that which is different than them… this is often Kló. So he has an unhealthy dicsaste for cities and often of royalty… whom he sees as the embodiment of "civilized" rule.

Kló is also stubborn. A mixed thing, to be sure, but a thing often has to be proven multiple times before he'll really believe other than he originally thought.

"Tell it again," the Old Man said.

Kló prided himself on his patience, but a fourth telling of this same memory tested him. Kló didn't know the Old Man, who had been sitting at Kló's campfire when Kló had awakened, staring at him. Nor did Kló fear him, though the Old Man wore power and authority like the implacable northern mountains wore their eternal cloaks of snow.

Now that's a lie, Kló thought as he regarded the Old Man, there's no shame in a cub admitting a terrible storm frightens it. Simply the way of things. Kló certainly felt like a cub sitting across from the Old Man. Plus, despite the power radiating from the Old Man, something in Kló's gut told him there was no immediate danger here.

So once again, he reached down and picked up the blade… considering one side of it then the other in the dancing light of the fire. It was big and heavy, similar to an Ulfen broadsword. But this blade was thick at the base and crudely-wrought. And the runes carved into the side weren't Ulfen. Far from it. They were the angular markings of ice giants.

"It was a full moon back. We were hunting elk along a small stream a few days walk northeast of Trollheim." This being the fourth telling of the memory, that was coming to seem a flimsy excuse even to Kló. There was game near the eastern edge of Hagsreach, alright, but a hunter was likely to run into far worse than elk. Kló was realizing that the rage he'd had for Winter's children (Frost giants, winter wolves, and other minions of Baba Yaga's reign) was really at the heart of his foolhardy trip out near the eastern borders. "Me, Braegan and Bran had been on the trail for hours. We had enough game to take back to town; Braegan wanted to head back. This bull's rubs on the trees were massive, though. I'd never seen them that big before, so there was no way I was headed back." Truth to tell, Kló didn't really even want to see the creature slain… sure as the snow is cold he wasn't going to miss watching one in its element, though.

"The sunlight was failing as we closed on the great elk, but we never got to see him. A second path crossed the first. Human prints heading east. And by the look of them, moving fast. And the sounds of shouting in the distance. Yelling. Screaming." He shrugs, "Sounded like a fight. So we abandoned our hunt to find out." In the Hagsreach, you didn't leave people to fight alone. Kló was an outsider since birth; his size, appearance, and markings making him a stranger among those who should have been his friends. But you don't leave people alone in Hagsreach.. it's just not right.

"The sounds got louder as we got closer. It was a fight, alright. A nasty one." Even at the fourth re-telling, he couldn't help but see it replayed in his mind's eye. The horrors of every Hagsreacher's nightmares coming to life. It unsettled him still. When Kló continued, his voice was low, almost a whisper, "A group of Darkwine's Blackraven's were fighting a few frost giants. The trail showed that the Blackraven's had hunted the giants as they tried to make it back across the border. We showed up just too late… not that I knew what we would have done had we arrived earlier. Two of the 'Ravens were down for each of the giants." In the dark, the snow seemed drenched with black… the combined blood of Bloodravens and giants. "There was only one of the giants left. It bled from a few deep cuts, but he faced down only two 'Ravens. And they were both more bloodied than the giant was." There had been no time to think. It had been jump in or watch the men die… not that Kló's intervention had done any good for the two Blackravens.

The re-telling brought the held blade back to his mind, and he lifted it up for the Old Man to see. "The giant used this blade to do his work." The monster had brought that thick blade down into the neck of the first Blackraven, blood fanning across the moonlit snow. "He killed the first of the Blackravens as we came into the clearing. The second used the opening to grab a broken spear and jam it into the thing's gut." The man was clearly injured gravely, but he had fought with a grim determination… refusing to go down easily even when his death was all but certain. Kló had roared a wordless battle-cry to try to draw off the giant, but it was intent on its prey. "The giant removed his head for it."

Kló remembered that moment starkly. He, Braegan and Bran had stopped their charge dead. These two giants had killed a whole group of Blackravens. Seasoned warriors and hunters. And now the thing – bloodied and injured as it was – had nothing between it and the three of them. "So we ran. Scattered like a herd of rabbits. I could see immediately that the thing had gone after Bran." It had roared after Kló's hunting companion like a crazed white demon… like an avalanche. And it was Kló's fault that they were even still out there. The image was burned in Kló's mind. The giant kicking up snow as it charged, its own blood flying as it closed on the smaller man. "I couldn't' let him die. Not like that. But I didn't know what to do." Kló paused, continuing in a quieter voice, "But something inside me knew. Something that's always been there. Waiting." It was like a polar bear awakening to find its home threatened. A primal, savage force that roared from the depths of Kló.

He sighed, the blade dipping into the snow at his feet as he looked up at the Old Man. "So I let go. I barely remember it. Whatever it was inside of me took over. Controlled me." There were just flashes of memory. The beast inside taking over, overwhelming his body with a primal strength. The reckless charge through the snow at the giant about to reach Bran. The look of fear in Bran's eyes… of surprise and challenge in the giant's. The pain of the fight. The blood. Oh so much blood.

"Next thing I remember was waking up in the blood-crusted snow. It must have been hours later. Bran lay dead, but so did the giant. I was barely alive myself. This…" he hefted the blade, "lay beside me."

He spun the blade a few more times, "And the rest is as I've said over and again. I kept the blade, as much for support for my story as anything else. I grabbed Bran and went to find Braegan. We made our way back to town. If it weren't for the blade and all the bodies, I still don't think many would have believed us. As it is, it somewhat branded us… not that we weren't already scarred from it."

Kló's words fell away, and he squinted at the Old Man. "I told no one about what happened to me, though. Braegan didn't see it, either, so it was not hard to keep it from him. All he knows is that the giant died killing Bran, and I was lucky to survive. And now there's you. Showing up asking after that night. Asking for my memories time after time like there's something you're not believing, or understanding…" Kló is unsure how to finish the thought.

The Old Man's face scrunched up in amusement. One of his first emotional responses. "I understood the story after the first telling, cub. I'm not the one who lacks understanding." The Old Man shook his head. It was like watching the mountain itself shake its head. "These things you speak of. What awoke in you during the fight. It is an old thing. A part of an ancient way." He leaned forward then, and suddenly Kló was afraid of the man's powerful, predatory stare. "A thing of my way, cub. It is rare. Few are touched by it. And I'll make you an offer, but only once. I will teach you about this thing in you. This old, powerful thing. But it is a dangerous road. And what you choose, you must see through to the end. And I also promise you a chance to spill the blood of more of Winter's children. So, cub. Kló. White-Claw. What's our choice?"

What happened to Caullyn's red cap? I figured it might be too much to have a beginning character start up with a Redcap's cap, since he is technically a gnome. I thought the boots might be a more subtle link to his father and it works well in the story. If selected I will update the story to indicated he finds his father frozen and broken into pieces. He would have left his ice-cracked father in a burrow under an oak. He would have left what remained of the actual Redcap with his father (and any knives).

And does Caerb desire to create one of his own? I see this as more the reason he would not have taken his father's cap. The Redcap is something someone earns with the blood of one's own opponents. He will indeed seek to earn his own.

Does Caerb pay homage to any deities? He is of the Green Faith. Left to his own devices too much growing up, his capricious manner fell into the followings of the Lantern King. On the darkest of nights he might spend the evening cavorting with the spirits that dance and glow, carefree.

My hat is off to you over the amount of time you had to spend going through these submissions. On a recent thread of advice for how to do a recruitment post, I listed several points I see you also hold dear (no tavern spam, include writing samples) so naturally I am very pleased with how you structured this, as are many other people by the great response, Good Job!

Daughter of eleven storied sword || broken on star's sordid points.
Honey heart's vow undone || taken by hearth's bleak herald.
Third star cut uneven || by snow's son singer's wrath.
Debt delivered twice mourned || the drunkard's daring daughter.

Rutting bull's burden || lessened by base beasts.
Pentagon's jagged points scattered || by pale eye plucker's law.
Winter's unwanted left wanting || his world windows veiled in tears,
took up sword sworn swan's vow || and left the scavanger's pale skirts.

Translation

In Whiterook*, by the Thundering river.
Randvér Icemarked's songs were silenced by pride.
Randvér was beloved of Iomedae.
With the 11 Acts of Iomedae he claimed Halla.

Halla was broken by the Randvér's five quintuplet brothers.
Halla's vow undone, taken by winter.
Randvér's brother Thrir was cut uneven by Randvér's wrath.
Randvér mourned Halla.

Randvér's father Faraldr's burden was lessened by his five brothers.
The quintuplets scattered by Whiterook's law.
Randvér left wanting, his eyes veiled in tears.
took up Halla's vow, and left Whiterook.

*The village of Whiterook is surrounded by a wall of magically enhanced vine and birch.

==DEFENSE==
AC 20, 12 touch, 18 flatfooted (7 armor, 1 dex, 2 Shield)
hp 12 (10 hd, 1 favored class, 2 con, 3 feat)
Fort 4 Ref 1 Will 2 (+2 vs Death Effects)
Takes +1 damage from Cold Iron Weapons.

==OFFENSE==
Spd 20 ft
Melee Battleaxe +4 1d8+3/x3
Melee Greataxe +4 1d12+4/x3
Melee Club +4 1d6+3
Ranged Club +2 1d6+3
Ranged Sling +2 1d4+3

==STATISTICS==
Str 16, Dex 12, Con 12, Int 11, Wis 10, Cha 18
Base Atk +1,Cmb +4 Cmd 15

Feats Fey Foundling, Power Attack

Languages Common, Skald

Traits Northern Ancestry, Divine Artist

Trained Skills[3] Diplomacy +8, Knowledge Religion +4, Perform Singing +9

Untrained Skills Acrobatics -3, Climb -1, Perception +0, Sense Motive +0, Ride -3, Stealth -3, Swim -1

Equipment
Breastplate 200gp
Armored Kilt 20gp
Heavy Wooden Shield 7gp
Cold Iron Battleaxe 10gp
Greataxe 40gp
Club
Sling
Bullets, Sling (20) 2sp
Bullets, Sling Cold Iron (20) 4sp
Backpack 2gp
Bedroll 1sp
Explorer's Outfit
Cold Weather Outfit 8gp
Cleats 5gp
7gp 3sp

Long ago, in winter's heart,
when hunger and darkness beckoned,
set out into the fiercest snows,
a man called Faraldr the Fecund.
Winter may be be beautiful,
but it always takes a toll!

He struggled on in direst need,
despite the cold and travail,
he had fourteen hungry sons to feed,
and could not afford to fail!
Winter may be merciless,
but the strong will still survive.

Then as winter closed upon his heart,
stealing away all his vigor,
through the ever whirling snows,
he spied a terrible and lovely figure.
Winter may be wonderful,
but there always a price to pay.

She came out of the blizzards depths,
beauty so cruel it bought pain,
and as she walked ice form in her steps,
and she sang out this refrain.
Winter may be terrible,
but there always is a way.

Father of starving sons let me intervene,
I shall offer you a perfect deal.
Give me one son for your fourteen,
I'll see they do not miss a meal.
Winter may be hungry,
but those who would live must feed.

And so he lay upon a bed of snow and ice,
and gave to her his vaunted seed,
though he cursed her terrible price.
Thinking of his family he bitterly did concede.
Winter may perilous,
but its not immune to need.

Snows abated swiftly, she faded like a dream.
He found himself beside a great white stag,
red blood upon the snow, and rising from it steam.
Fourteen little lives saved, for one frigid shag!
Winter may be long and dark,
but it the end it to must flee.

Winter passed and spring did come between,
then summer's beautiful blazing days.
Autumn came, gods forgive a man fathering fourteen,
even if he forgot the price he still pays.
Winter may be gone for now,
but its never long away.

As chill returned Faraldr went abroad,
to gather wood to fuel the dwindling fire.
Turning then he saw her, whose price he ignored,
cradling two babes sired by their desire.
Winter may be frigid,
but death is not her goal.

A bargain struck a price you paid,
I can take no more, I have my son,
this one yours, raise him or to the blade,
I have my son now the deed is done.
Winter may be heartless,
but she still reigns supreme.

Faraldr found himself a father to fifteen.
Fourteen healthy hearty boys, strong and warm,
one who waited for the snows recalling what had been.
And to one Winter sang calling with each storm.
Winter may be a nightmare,
but to some it is also a dream.

Winter's son named Randvér, aware of his limitation,
a poor and lonely singer, who for you performs,
songs and sagas to conjure up, a pale imitation,
of stories done, and Winter's majestic forms.
Winter may be bitter,
but who can deny her majesty?

Winter may be beautiful, but she always takes a toll.
Winter may be merciless, but the strong will still survive.
Winter may be frigid, but death is not her goal.
Winter may be terrible, but the great will always thrive.
Winter may be perilous, but its not immune to need.
Winter may be heartless, but she still reigns supreme.
Winter may be hungry, but those who would live must feed.
Winter may be a nightmare, but for some it is also a dream.
Winter may be wonderful, but there's always a price to pay.
Winter may be long and dark, but it the end it to must flee.
Winter may be gone for now, but its never long away.
Winter may be bitter, but who can deny her majesty?

Faraldr proved fruitful, and with scare rest in between, Heilvé had birthed eight sons. Thorgar bleak and bold, Ágeirr quick and stubborn, Almgautr cautious and clever, Hrafn crude and mirthful, Humli guileful and fierce, Jarni simple and loyal, Kali ugly and wise, Magnus surly and shy. Faraldr's sons grew like ivy, owning their father's power and vicious ire. Then broken Heilvé begged reprieve and Faraldr to soothe his ears agreed to fill her but once more with his seed. But such his vigor, and to forever seal his fame, he gave her not one babe but five.

Earning the name Faraldr the Fecund, he named the babes to light his feat, Ein, Tveir, Thrir, Fjorir, and Fimm. Each of these sons was strong, but they fought from tit to cradle, and would grew to be cruel terrors the like Whiterook had never seen.

Exhausted Heilvé called Agithra, the midwife and finally had her administer the herb teas known as Womb Blight. So it seemed that their brood would be capped at fourteen. Life was hard with fourteen sons and Faraldr was forced to spend much of his time hunting to feed his brood.

Then came the longest winter, anyone in Whiterook had ever seen, when the quintuplets were scarcely weaned, and well into spring the snows abided. Carefully rationed stores dwindled and much as Heilvé begged of their neighbors - for Faraldr would not - there was nothing to spare. His sons wailing for the hollow churning in their bellies Faraldr was forced to set out hunting, as much to escape their wailing as in real hope of finding quarry.

He slogged through the swirling snows feeling the cold cut to his bone, and when he thought he must turn back and watch his sons die, or else meet his end in the snows he spied a figure. Beautiful and terrible, she was a haughtily beautiful woman, but alien and gleaming with skin covered in the thinnest sheen of ice. Fey. She offered him a bargain, if he would give her a single son she would save his fourteen. So he laid with her in the snows, and when he awoke the snows were melting away and a great white stag lay dead beside him. Dragging the beast home, and feeding his family, he did his best to forget the bargain.

The next year in the depths of winter he was hunting again, though the day was clear and fresh. A sudden blizzard enveloped him and fear stirred his heart, as the Fey he had come to think of as the Ice Queen came to him again. This time she clutched two pale babes and gave one to him, saying that their bargain had only been for one child and that he might do as he wished with the other. He tried to kill the babe in the snows, but its face was impossibly fair, and so cursing he took it up and bore it home.

Heilvé loved the babe all the more for the fact it had not come from herself, and was relieved to finally hear the tale that had darkened Faraldr's temper for a year. She named him Randvér for her Uncle who had died in the snows and doted on the beautiful babe, causing the five to come to hate him for stealing their mother.

As Randvér grew he stood out amongst his brothers like a diamond amongst river stones. While he shared their power he had none of their brute countenance, and his hair was silken bronze to their bristly flame red straw. The eldest of his brothers loved him well, but the five born together tormented him and as they grew and his older brothers came to travel out with his father Randvér's life became harder.

All of Faraldr's sons shared their father's prowess in battle, but Thorgar grew to resent his father's curt commands. At fourteen Thorgar left setting out for the soft southern lands to find his fortune. He returned three years later, haunted and changed. Before leaving again he gifted Randvér with a book, The 11 Acts of Iomedae knowing his youngest brother's fondness for tales of heroism, and his oft expressed disappointment with the betrayals and evils of the Sagas heroes. Thorgar departed shortly after, and in time wrought his own dark legend as Thorgar the Childeater.

The Acts were a comfort to Randvér as one by one his beloved older brothers left him to the merciless company of the five. They would beat him every day, knowing that so long as the wounds they inflicted were not obvious their father would take no action, and ignoring their mother's pleading. Eventually he began to slip away each day hiding about Whiterook, only to be hunted by the five.

At seven years old he was saved from another brotherly beating by the skald Vragi Ironjaw. The old singer and storyteller carried him to his hut and his eyes gleamed fury as Randvér told the tale of his woes. From then on Randvér fled to Vragi, helping him with his chores even as the skald taught him the sagas and the songs. Randvér proved to have a beautiful voice, but he knew well what his father thought of singers and kept his new talent hidden.

But all too soon the five, hunts thwarted heard his singing and told their father. Faraldr forbade Vragi from teaching his sons and delivered a vicious beating. Shortly after a song emerged about Whiterook's Rutting Bull, that painted Faraldr as an oversexed idiot stumbling from one foolishness to another. Faraldr sought out Vragi for vengeance but found the old man fled. And forever after that the mocking song, which became a great favorite, haunted Faraldr.

Again the prey of his five cruel brothers Randvér then met a girl named Halla. Halla hid from her drunken father and his angry fists, and the two soon became fast friends brought together by their flight. Halla turned into a pretty girl, tall and curvacious yet strong and she and Randvér loved each other dearly. He showed Halla his prized possession The Acts of Iomedae and she became so enthused with the goddess that she swore she would one day take up her call as a holy warrior of the light. Randvér promised he would accompany her and sing of her deeds.

As Randvér reached his tenth spring his father judged him old enough to begin training in the arts of battle with his brothers. But where all of his brothers would also accompany his father out hunting Faraldr forbade Randvér to do so fearing that his inhuman blood would draw queer things to them. Randvér was glad of these times for they enabled him to sing for Heilvé and Halla and recover from the brutal assaults of the five in training.

Last winter the five caught Halla, and took her. Distraught, and believing Randvér would think her tainted by his loathsome brothers she fled out into the snows. Only the next morning did her father declare her absence and only then did Thrir mock Randvér with their foul deed. And in a moment Randvér could truly see the evil in his brother, and he challenged him. Thrir called to the five, but Faraldr heard his call and raged that if they wished to stand as one man he would see they had only one head and one sword arm. He gave Randvér his axe of cold iron and his youngest son fought transformed and smote Thrir severing his arm and leaving him to bleed, running out to into the growing snow storm to seek Halla.

As ever the cold meant little to him, for his wintry heritage protected him, and he struggled onwards against the winds. But he was no hunter or woodsman and could never follow a trail in such snows. But he would not relent and through the night he sought her. Finally in the pale light of dawn he came across her lying in the snow, cold and still. He gathered her to him and tried to give her his own warmth, but she was gone. He carried her home in his arms.

When he returned he found that the five had been banished, and so robbed of his vengeance he collapsed. Though he knew great despair he promised himself that he would one day take up both Halla's vow in her memory, for Iomedae had given him the strength to smite his brother and see true evil he was sure.

But without Halla everything seemed dark and Whiterook a place haunted by painful memories. So he took his leave of a tearful Heilvé, well wishing brothers, and a stern Faraldr who gifted him with his cold iron axes, cautioning him to watch for the Fey who would not easily relinquish one with ties to them. He wore the battered breastplate that had endured so much punishment with him in training, and a warm wolf pelt sewn into a cloak for him by Heilvé and set out into the world.

But when he reached Heldren something called him to stay, perhaps he needed to overcome his grief before he could truly set out to serve Iomedae. So he asked the Master of the Silver Stoat if he might find work for him, as a singer and a hand. After hearing Randvér sing the man gladly agreed, and he has served there since as entertainer, as lugger of barrels, and a watchful eye - and never had there been one better at spotting trouble makers.

He loves to sing and compose songs of great adventure, but is self conscious about the notion of relaying his own exploits. His good looks and inability to grow a proper beard make him feel less of a man than his Ulfen peers and reminders of both sting. He believes the powers granted to him by Iomedae were truly supposed to be for Halla, and so strives to honor them and preserve them while taking no credit for them.

Currently he feels lost, something he does not understand keeps him in Heldren and he cannot determine whether it is a failing upon his part or Iomedae's will.

Randvér is loving, quick to see the best traits in people and draw them out. He will empathize with others when he can, but trusts his goddess to tell him when someone is evil, though he knows that evil does not mean unredeemable.

Randvér is sheltered, despite the hardships he endured he was essentially confined to Whiterook for the majority of his life and knows little of the world beyond that does not come from songs or stories. He can be naive and although his heritage protects him from the cold he knows little of the hardships of nature.