Jorvik's page

Rising from the table, Jorvik is greeted by what a common Mendevian would consider a bitterly cold breeze. All but a handful of days spent in the frigid north, Jorvik considers this no more than a mild, spring day. Cloak and tunic free flowing in the wind, his blond hair swirling around his face exposed his pointed ears which betrays bystanders initially classifying him as human.

He passes clerics and paladins erecting tents, and workers affixing various crusader heraldry at the apex of those tents. He sees men oiled, bare chested, attempting to toss the other out of a chalked circle, archers lining up shots at hay bales twenty paces away, and hawkers attempting to pawn off bits of the 'wardstones' as personal protection from the bubbling mass of chaotic evil nestled all too close to the Worldwound.

Walking with no clear destination in mind, Jorvik finds himself closing in on a circular group of Mendevians listening to a man in it's center passionately speaking.

"Countrymen, we need to untie, throw out these crusaders. Mendev has too long been the playground for these holy warriors. What have they done for us? Hapnar, where is your boy? Dead somewhere in the Worldwound squiring for some supposed do-gooder from Andoran. You Bithel, where is your daughter? Hanged for witchery. We both know she was a good lass. You Sanved, widower. Where were the crusaders when those Desna forsaken demon spawn tore Emaleia apart?" Grown men are weeping and young boys gnashing their teeth, as the man points to many in the crowd, opening long buried wounds.

Jorvik begins a slow seethe inside as he listens to the man's words. As a youth, huddled around the fire in the Realm of the Mammoth Lords, he listened to the Kellid Bloodspeakers telling tales of companies of northmen falling upon the demon hordes with reckless abandon. Blood boiling, fighting past the point when most men would have died, they made their kin proud dying in the glory of battle, for a cause, protecting the innocents from the demons. At the man's apostasy, Jorvik, the quiet reserved youth, can feel the blood of the north rise in him.

Shouldering his way to the center of the circle, Jorvik walks up to the man until their noses almost touch, "Mendevian, I am a stranger in your land. I do not know these men" Jorvik extends his hand, sweeping the crowd, "but I have had kin untold shed Northernblood all over your country protecting you form the horrors of the Worldwound. As a youth I was weened from my mother's breast hearing of Gudrun, Svanhildr, and Yngvi. Let me tell you of Sinfjötla and Sinfjotli"

With that the soft spoken youth begins to recite the ballad in such a loud, clear voice that all the assembled listen in rapt attention, even the quarrelsome Mendevian.

"Brave twins, Sinfjötla and Sinfjotli,
Joined from the start in the womb,
one was the left, one was the right,
one cut the demon lord high,
one cut the demon lord low,
Sinfjötla took a claw,
Sinfjotli took a wing,
But the demon lord grew angry,
he swung at Sinfjötla,
but a shield met his blow,
a shield of love,
a shield of flesh,
a shield of brother,
Sinfjotli, life blood pooling beneath him,
Sinfjötla watching himself die,
demon lord in ecstasy,
Sinfjotli the left,
Sinfjötla the right,
from their mother's womb joined,
struck,
two as one,
swift,
powerful,
deadly,
thinking forever together,
Pierced, the demon lord returned to chaos,
dying, Sinfjotli returned to the earth,
living, Sinfjötla, alone,
for the first time,
alone.

Woman,
soft,
warm,
alive,
Child,
small,
wrinkled,
loud,
Sinfjotli,
seconds later, another,
Child,
small,
wrinkled,
loud,
Sinfjötla,
together,
again,
forever."

He slowly walks out of the circle, no one making a sound. A mailed gauntlet claps on his shoulder, "Well spoken northman. When these, festivities, have died down, come to the Crowned Stag pavilion. I have need of a man like you. One who knows what the price will be. One who is willing to pay it."

Jorvik nods solemnly, and leaves Kenabres seeking the solitude of the forest. He knows he will go to the pavilion. He knows he will fight the demon horde. He knows his blood will soak into the soil of the Worldwound. He prays Desna for the chance to love again before he dies.

On these expeditions, Jorvik quickly adapted and learned about the diverse cultures he found himself in. He examined the fey creatures in Chillbright, and spent nights biovacing in the Hoarwood Forest in his home country. As the youth grew, his mother would send him further and further from his home as people continually bullied, and shunned him.

Jorvik began canvassing the north outside of Irrisen. He traveled to the Realm of the Mammoth Lords taking part in giant hunts, and hearing the Kellid Bloodspeakers tell tales of bold northern warriors. He quickly became infatuated with their abilities. The Bloodspeakers, more tolerant than many of his norther neighbors, took Jorvik in as one of their own. Jorvik began to spend more and more time with them, rarely returning to Whitethrone. Singing songs of slaying, inspiring the hunters to take down the massive mammoths, Jorvik finally felt a sense of belonging. Inevitably, the stories would always revolve around the Worldwound, and the old-timers exploits there. His quiet, reserved demeanor instantly transformed as he participated in battle. The mammoth lords quickly began to rely on Jorvik's prowess.

In his roaming he would occasionally spy a traveling band of Snowcaster elves, but they would always melt into the earth before he could approach them. He liked to believe it was his father, stealing glances at him.

One summer, while hunting with the mammoth lords, a visiting band from the Linnorm Kings arrived in camp. Not thinking that Jorvik hailed from their bitter enemies, the Irrisen, they welcomed Jorvik to their fires. Swapping stories, and snacking on dried caribou, Jorvik fell instantly in love with one of the young girls from the Linnorm party, Thingerd.

Like most young lovers, they stayed up talking until the sun dipped down, but never quite set in the ever-long days of summer in the north. The youths instantly formed a plan to 'run away' to the south. Thingerd knew her parents would never allow her to court the half-elf, even more so if they new he was a son of a white witch. Jorvik holding no ties to anyone, quickly agreed.

As the youths made their way south, they quickly realized that their puppy love was melting quicker than a snowball atop a brazier. They grew increasingly tired of each other the further south they traveled. After a particularly drawn out argument, Thingerd decided to return to her father's house in the north, and Jorvik decided to stay in the south and make his way in the world.

He now finds himself in Mendev, Kenabres specifically. Quiet, reserved, once battle begins and the blood of the north sends him into a rage, singing of his people takes over, Jorvik becomes a fierce warrior. He inspires his comrades to greater power, yet can still fell foes with his mighty hammer.