About Thorgrim Sigurdson
THORGRIM the FIENDBREAKER
Male Ulfen Human Invulnerable Rager Barbarian 1
AC 15/13; Touch 10/8; FF 15/13(+5 Armor; +0 Dex)
Speed 40 ft. (30 ft. in armor)
Str 19/23, Dex 11, Con 16/22, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 7
Skills (4 - 4 [Ranks] + 0 [Int] + 0 [Favored Class])
Languages Common (Taldane), Common (Osiriani), Skald
Currency 0 Pp; 1 Gp; 5 Sp; 8 Cp
Though generally a helpful and heroic sort, Thorgrim has little patience for etiquette and frivolities. The task he has set himself to demands such focus and determination that he has unwittingly come to expect the same from those with whom he has dealings. He tends to view everything else as trivial by comparison, if not with open contempt.
Penalty: -5 Diplomacy and Intimidate to improve attitudes towards you.
Propitiation (Abadar—Appraise; Besmara—Bluff; Torag—Craft; Erastil—Diplomacy; Gorum—Intimidate; Irori—Knowledge: Local) (Religion)
The task Thorgrim has set before himself is daunting. The goði of Ullerskad (more specifically, the clergymen of the Irongold Bastion Temple of Gorum and the Bramblehearth Hollow Temple of Erastil) provided wise and sound counsel to the immense barbarian, suggesting that his quest would be folly without the blessing of their respective deities. Thorgrim saw wisdom in their words, perhaps even beyond the speakers' intentions. He seeks to propitiate not one, but a great many of the divine pantheons, making offerings to each in turn for the myriad trials that rise to confront him. [Benefit: At the start of each day, pick one of the following skills: Appraise, Bluff, Craft (weapons), Diplomacy, Intimidate, or Knowledge (local). You gain a +2 trait bonus on that skill until the start of the next day.]
Muscle of the Society (Combat)
Blood of Giants (Campaign)
Nemesis: Sigurd "Púkinn Bölvaðir" (formerly Sigurd Olafson)
Ulfen Human/Half-Fiend Invulnerable Rager Barbarian CR??
Few men were a match for Sigurd's impressive stature, and fewer still measure up to Thorgrim. He stands tall even by Ulfen standards, with long and straight flaxen hair spilling down just past his broad shoulders. Several braids wind through his hair and facial hair, secured in place by crimson leather strands. His frame is thick and well muscled. His skin is rough and pale, while his eyes are cold and blue as most Ulfen are famous for. Sigurdson has a stoic and determined look about him, and exudes an air of confidence. When speaking, his words erupt from his mouth like a bass drum's rhythm from the depths of a cavern; a deep bellow of a voice that is well paired with his brutish appearance.
Thorgrim's armor is adorned in images of his homelands: a metal mural of runic knots and sigils meant to bestow great luck and strength upon he who wears it. About his girth is a coiled likeness of Jörmungandr—a dread serpent of Ulfen folklore thought to be so large as to encircle the world. His weapon, though a masterpiece in its own right, is but the faintest glimmer of its former self. The hilt of Dómrbrandr remains intact, however: an ebon tar-like grip that still quivers with life in its wielder's hand. When garbed in the trappings of his homeland, he is covered in a patchwork of furs and warm clothes, with matching fur boots and gloves. He wears the matching tusks of a slain ice troll about his neck, a trophy from his first true foe.
While Thorgrim cuts an impressive figure as a paragon of Ulfen standards, he is a far cry from the common perception of the north's vikingrs.
Reserved: Seldom does he overindulge in drink, woman, or song, and his boasts are confined to truths. He takes no pleasure in the reaver lifestyle some of his kinsmen are known for, and refuses to go out of his way to find violence with those he has a quarrel with. His ire he saves for true threats, of which there are plenty without resorting to skirmishes with drunkards and fools.
Compassionate: To those whom he regards as less fortunate, Thorgrim is genuinely kind. Orphans, urchins, and beggars are likely to find favor with the sometimes-gentle giant.
Rigid: To those whom he regards as fools or jokers, Thorgrim has no patience. Too much lies at stake for the the people of Golarion to fritter away their time on idle thoughts and pleasantries. Now is the time for decisive action and heroics.
Altruistic: Thorgrim will not hesitate to protect those in need, or stick his neck out for those whom he regards as friends and allies. He tries to hold himself to a higher ideal, lest he succumb to the same fate as his father.
Driven: Mostly as it pertains to his own personal goals; Thorgrim, once committed to a task, will not easily be distracted, unless something far more pertinent comes along.
Uppity: The standard to which Thorgrim holds himself sometimes gets applied to others as well. He often chides people for what he considers laziness or moral shortcomings. For those who are not of a similar outlook, he is sometimes difficult to tolerate.
The darkness of the dilapidated mead hall stood as foreboding as it was stifling. A paltry fire lit in the ruin of what had been a long neglected fire pit cast shadows that danced macabre along the sagging walls. Three gnarled men sat about the flame, swaddled in furs and armor worn from use as they tried in vain to ward off the unabating chill that strangled the air. Their braided, flaxen beards could have marked them as brothers, though the onlooker knew better. Their usefulness, fleeting as it had been, now drew to a close. The Baroness would likely have them flayed come dawn.
Sitting upon a cracked bench still stained thick with blood from a battle long since concluded, seemingly unphased by the frigid environment they found themselves in, was perched a young girl of regal bearing. Raven hair framed a frail, beautiful face with eyes as lustrous as blue diamonds. A gown of subdued, form-fitting greens climbed from her legs to neck, yielding to a ringed collar of black furs criss crossed with a tangle of silver threads. As her words issued forth like that of a child’s, the seasoned and ragged warriors cringed as if from the crack of a whip. “Kvöldið uppgjöf. Í dögun nálgast. Eldur flöktir þínum. Mikið eins og þolinmæði mína. Sýna staðsetningu á brot eða deyja eins og bleyður sem þú ert.” She spoke in their native Ulfen tongue with surprising clarity.
The warriors seemed content to continue contemplating the fire before them. It’s waning dance did little to soothe the ache of the cold. The eldest of the trio exhaled a tired sigh before rising to his feet on creaking knees. His weathered face remained defiant in spite of the strands of white that had begun creeping into his mane of hair. “Jadwiga barn, þitt verkefni er heimska. Eins og ég hef sagt þér, er það í Ullerskad ekki lengur. Það hvílir í höndum einn sem mun koma til lífsins örlög skrifað á hann: að Ulfen satt, Þorgrímur púkinn brotsjór. Meira en það, mun ég ekki segja. Þessi staður hefur orðið nóg svik án við þrjú steypu eigin nöfn okkar í helvíti.” He knew his words had cost them their lives. But his honor remained. His hope remained--borne far away on the shoulders of the one called Thorgrim, son of the Púkinn Bölvaðir...
“Gaum nú orðum mínum, börn, og hlusta vel. Heyra hvað gerist þeir sem wield dýrð þeir ekki fengið.”
Sigurd Olafson is a celebrated hero, even among the likes of the vikingr laden city of Ullerskad. Like many, he had served his time among the Ulfen Guard of Grand Prince Stavian III. Unlike many, he would not rest content to retire on the considerable wealth that year long endeavor had earned him. Always seeking further conquest and fame, Sigurd’s exploits were known to mead halls the length of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. Whether it be splintering entire tribes of trolls and giants alike, or visiting retribution upon the Winter Witches in Irrisen, his ever growing list of accomplishments inspired an excited murmur throughout Ulfen lands: whispers that perhaps a new Linnorm King would arise; whispers that in Sigurd, finally there existed a leader who would arise and overthrow the witches that had subjugated much of their ancestral land. A slayer of such renown surely needed a weapon to match the weight of his name.
The goði and gyðja of Ullerskad warned of folly and tragedy turned redemption should Sigurd seek entry into the demesne of The Deathless Jarl in Zar Kragnaral, insisting instead that his name bore the weight required to weather all coming storms. Heedless of the words of others, as ever, Sigurd made ready to slaughter his way through the giant tribes that made lair around Zar Kragnaral.
He returned bearing a blade all but lost to the roll of years. Known perhaps only to a handful of scholars in the entire world, Dómrbrandr had passed from knowledge in the centuries following the First Earthfall. A blade fit for king and conquerer, when asked how he had earned such a gift, Sigurd only replied that it had cost him “half his sight.” Not a particularly clever man, Sigurd spoke plainly. His left eye had died despite bearing no sign of injury; a colorless orb that afforded neither tear nor sight ever again.
“En sjá, jafnvel fræ bleyður getur ekki borið ávöxt passa fyrir borða.”
His warpath unabating, prowess unrivaled, and ambition indomitable, Sigurd seemed likely to make his bid for Ulfen royalty soon enough. It would seem, however, that there did exist one obstacle capable of stopping the brute’s rise to power: his son. Born to he and his wife, a young and beautiful vikingr shieldmaiden called Svala Bramsdottir, his son Thorgrim proved to be the only thing capable of exceeding his personal need for fame and glory. Rather than seeking out Fafhnheir to slay in single-combat, thus uniting the Linnorm Kingdoms under one banner, Sigurd resolved to spend his days raising his son to be the greatest vikingr the lands would ever know.
“Getur það ekki líka hægt að segja að fræ af föður gæti skilað tré jafnvel hærri en forveri hans?”
Towering tall and true, thick with muscles despite his youth, Thorgrim’s fifteenth nameday would serve also as the untested vikingr’s proving. A full decade and a half had passed since Sigurd last raided the frigid lands of Irrisen to the east. It was there he decided his son would earn his own legacy’s foothold.
Skrata, a small town playing host to one of Whitethrone’s important shipping lanes, lay just east of Irrisen’s western border along the Rimeflow River. It was Skrata where Thorgrim would first make himself known. The Ulfen invaders surged as one into the outlying houses and warehouses of the town, cutting down defender as if they were children. It would not be long until they earned themselves a proper fight, however, as Irrisen placed much value on the wellbeing of their shipping lanes.
Unknown to the Ulfen forces, Skrata played host to more than town guards and witch dolls. Led by a mountain of a frost giant, a pair of winter wolves and a small horde of ice trolls poured out of hidden redoubts to join battle with the vikingrs. During the thick of the fighting, Thorgrim found himself locked in fierce combat with an ice troll. Sigurd restrained several men who sought to aid Thorgrim in his fight, insisting that his son earn the kill alone. Surrendering to rage and raining an unrelenting hammer of blows against the beast, Sigurdson ultimately prevails against the beast. Though the cost is heavy, the Ulfens return rich from spoils in victory, and Thorgrim’s name is lauded in the songs and drinks that follow.
“Þjóðsögur byggt á goðsögnum eru ekki þjóðsögur. Og falla svo sannarlega sem turn í umsátri.”
Irrisen’s reemergence spelled disaster for the Ulfen raiders. Sigurd was no exception. The retaliation force collided with the combined might of Ullerskad's forces along the borders of Hagreach, but even a people so hardy as the Ulfen struggled to rise to the occasion of a Jadwiga led army of witches, soldiers, giants and worse.
Despite his formidable prowess and possession of his legendary blade, Sigurd Olafson and his forces suffer one humiliating defeat after another at the hands of the Irriseni onslaught. The blow to his ego gave rise to worse ramifications than the loss of his kinsmen. His father stricken aghast by his own shortcomings on the battle's front, Thorgrim is forced to supplant his father’s leadership. Their fierce contingent begins fighting smarter and cautiously instead of resorting to the reckless abandon Sigurd was infamous for. Though they exact little toll on Irrisen’s forces, they manage to hold their ground with the combined weight of the Ullerskad's forces around them. Sigurd retreats to Ullerskad, seemingly intent on drowning himself in mead.
“Eitt sem berst eigin örlög hans er dæmt til að mistakast. A minnka oft veitt af Norn.”
At a loss as to how to right his legacy, Sigurd returns to Zar Kragnaral. He is feared slain by most when a week goes by and no sign is seen of the aged warrior, though he eventually emerges nearly a month later. Sigurd is a changed man.
Twisted and corrupted by vile pacts made under the auspices of even viler witnesses, his greatly withered and emaciated body harbors deceptive strength. He returns at the head of a host of Guardian Daemons, surging unabated beyond the Ulfen front lines to meet Irrisen’s forces head on. He suffers another humiliating defeat at the hands of the witches, though is successful in providing an opening for Ullserskad's forces to turn the invading host back into Irrisen. Ultimately returning to Ullerskad once more in defeat with what remains of his daemonic horde, Sigurd proves utterly consumed by corruption and lays siege to his own city, lasting nearly a full week before Thorgrim and his surviving men return to drive back the Abaddon spawned horrors. Forced into a confrontation with his own father, Thorgrim begs him to cease his maddened conquest. No longer recognizing his son as such, Sigurd refuses, and drives forward to destroy his only offspring. Upon landing a blow against his son, the sword shatters and explodes into a fine mist of adamantine, mithral, and a veritable maelstrom of cosmic energy. Only the tar-like hilt remains, rolling out of Sigurd’s grasp to rest in the crimson stained snow surrounding he and Thorgrim. The resulting backlash nearly consumes Sigurd and Thorgrim both. Staggered and a hair from true death, Sigurd is forced to quit the field of battle or face annihilation at the hand of Ullerskad’s battered but unbroken forces. Thorgrim's unconscious form is dragged away to Irongold Bastion, Ullerskad's Gorumite temple.
“Og enn... jafnvel mistök gæti þjónað sem grunnur til sanna goðsögn.”
Thorgrim spends nearly a full month recovering from the injuries sustained battling his father and his daemonic ilk. He seeks counsel with the local priests of Gorum and Erastil during this period, where he takes his first steps in the long process of reforging the now bladeless hilt of Dómrbrandr. He swears oaths to both Gorum and Erastil (and other deities in the months to follow) to fulfill the seemingly impossible task of restoring the blade to its former glory and visiting vengeance against his cowardly father for his weakness and subsequent betrayals. Reforging Dómrbrandr would be no simple feat, however. Thorgrim spends roughly half a year under the tutelage of Torag’s Forgemasters in Highhelm before seeking an audience with the Pathfinders Grand Lodge in Absalom about the origins of his father’s blade. Even in the face of the calamity that his father had caused, Thorgrim remains undeterred in his quest. He would not fail as his father had.
Though the Pathfinders received him and offered their hospitality, the secrets of their vast libraries would remain closed to him without certain concessions being made on his part. In return for their services and aid in the young Ulfen's endeavor, they would require that Thorgrim lend his name to their ranks. Faced with little alternative, the vikingr grudgingly accepted despite no interest in living his life as such.
His first assignment from the Grand Lodge saw him accompanying a small team of scholars and archaeologists into the nation of Osirion by way of Sothis' ports. The voyage itself was short and uneventful, though their time in Osirion was anything but. As instructed, Thorgrim and his team met up with a pair of Sothans—a twin brother and sister, no less—that were to be their guides through the brutal trip through Osirion deserts. Just shy of a week, they had arrived at their destination: a ruin predating even the Osiriani civilizations. The daemonic glyphs and runes that dominated the stonework were foreboding, indeed, though none in the party of explorers could have fathomed that any fell guardians remained within.
Caught unawares in the ruin's central vault, most of the expedition fell in a single moment, withered into dry husks by a sudden swell of miasma and vile magic. The jackal-headed guardian was a creature as powerful as it was terrible. It was only through Thorgrim's self-sacrifice that Ojan and Jasilia were able to finally lay the beast low. Flying into an immense rage, Sigurdson impaled the meladaemon with the full length of his blade, driving it back and pinning it against a stone pillar while the beast thrashed, rending and withering the barbarian into ruin. Though the twin heirs of Osirion managed to emerge victorious, Thorgrim had been utterly destroyed by the creature's malign assault.
"Hversu lítilfjörlegur eru rannsóknir á lífi fyrir þann sem hefur svikari dauða?"
Thorgrim met not his forefathers. He was not availed to the meadhall promised his heroic departure. When his eyes opened, they were greeted by an obsidian dome sloping downward in all directions around the lush gardens and pretentious palace walls that housed them. Of his demise he was certain; the beast was a far greater foe than even his considerable strength could hope to prevail against. Instead, he was greeted by the Ruby Prince himself, surrounded by a thick line of formidable looking húskarlar. In thanks for saving the lives of his twin siblings, Khemet III had deemed Thorgrim Sigurdson worthy to take on the task of guarding the twin heirs in a far more formal capacity: as a Risen Guard. Thorgrim refused; or, at least, he attempted to.
Prince Khemet III, owning a vast network of powerful servants and creatures, forced the Ulfen into a pact that demanded his undying cooperation. Though every fiber of his being longed for the freedom to pursue his own path, the nature of the sorcerous pact thrust upon him forbade him from disobeying the will of the Ruby Prince for a full year, as demanded by the geas. He eventually learned not to fight the enchantment, begrudgingly.
"Maður örlög geta ekki komast örlög hans. Fyrir örlög hefur leið vinna í gegnum, þrátt fyrir óskir mönnum og fénaði."
Despite wanting nothing more than to crack the Ruby Prince's skull open with his bare hands, Thorgrim acquitted himself admirably in the time that followed the terms of his service. Some small part of him enjoyed the company of the twin heirs, but the forced servitude of the ordeal could not help but leave a bitter taste in the massive warrior's mouth. Even so, as the vikingr's sense of purpose tugged at him to direct his attention ever outwards and to the task of reforging Dómrbrandr, his mettle had been dulled by a full year wasted. The doors of the Grand Lodge were now shut to him after the disastrous expedition and his subsequent inability to return to Absalom with report or explanation. Thorgrim elects to make his way to Taldor. Failing any worthwhile leads on his only remaining ambition, he figures on being able to accrue some manner of wealth amidst good company among the Grand Prince's Ulfen Guard.