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Styrk
Styrk, son of Sigurd
| Name | Styrk |
|---|---|
| Status | Dormant |
| Occupation | Splitting guts for coin and mugging travellers |
| Age | Late thirties |
| Race | Man |
|---|---|
| Residence | Missing |
| Kinship | None |
| Outward Appearance | Jovial and straightforward from the start, yet often violent and devious when necessary, the man from Wilderland sports a variety of sins and virtues that many condemn. Blonde of facial hair with eyes of seawater and ruddy cheeks, Styrk doesn't differ much from his Northern kin. He sports the build of a warrior hardened by war and women, with bull-like shoulders, a heavy-set jawline and lean girth; and standing at six feet-five. His hands are large and calloused; his arms are long and packed with muscle. His posture is near impeccable, his back is straight and his bushy beard is groomed from time to time.
A rough disposition towards the world following his life as a raider, this man lives for himself and for little others. Causes, meanings, men and women not of his own kin mean very little to him. Striving little more than anarchy for his goals, it's for his own benefit, a world without law would make men like him thrive. Lusty, and sometimes forceful to get his way with others. Having little care for others, but only himself. |
|---|
Background
Hunched forth in his old cloak, Styrk gazed over the ship’s prow with feverish and fatigued eyes. Winter had begun and the rowing men felt the bitter conditions bite into their flesh. There was no comfort in his words, but they had a devilish undertone to them. “Row! Row as if the goddess herself waits by the shore with her legs spread wide!” he barked, having to overshadow the howling wind in volume. The longship cut through the battering waves with ease as the forty men pulled at the oars with all their strength. The ship was hoarded with plunder from the East, dark-skinned slaves sat huddled together in the middle, tied up like cattle. They were murmuring their prayers, weeping for the loss of their loved ones and seeing the thatches of their homes set alight by the horde of enraged Northmen. The black smoke above the Sea of Rhûn filled the crimson-red evening sky and the scent of burnt flesh was still freshly caught in their noses. “Svertingjar, filth if I ever saw some.” Olaf offered, accompanied by the sole of his mud-ridden boot landing in a captive’s face. The men laughed and the thought of their victory inspired them to row even faster.
The ship was filled with all sorts of men, some were merchants, and others were farmers. You had carpenters of Dale and thieves from Lake-Town. All left their past lives behind for a life in exile, a life without honour; but a life promising wealth and a glorious death in battle.
Styrk, however, was not destined for a swift end after his banishment. The murderer, who claims to have dealt out justice by killing the Seer that touched his niece, survived many winter-raids in the East and never succumbed to his wounds. Al though he had seen many, and it left him with a disgruntled and grisly appearance. In time the river-roving bandits’ ranks thinned out and they were scattered all over Wilderland, leaving every man to find his own fortune in other lands. The promise of an old kingdom in the West intrigued a select company of Northmen to gather arms and furnish supplies to take the long road into foreign soil.
| Friends | |
|---|---|
| Relatives | Father Sigurð, mother Ambjørg, brother Svein, brother Ólaf, brother Ásbjörn and the twin sisters Marja and Milda |
| Rivals/Enemies | Svertingjar (Easterlings) |
| Loves | Redheads, drinking, brawling, playing Kubb |
|---|---|
| Hates | Cowards and beggars |
| Motivation | To hoard treasure and be remembered |
| Quotes | "Never walk away from home ahead of your axe and sword. You can't feel a battle in your bones or foresee a fight." |
Styrk's Adventures
| My wicked thoughts - Part One | 10 years 10 months ago |
