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Seaver, "See-Ah-Ver"


Owner of the White Wolf Inn and Meadery and Merchant Caravaner.

AgeTwenty five winters.
ResidenceOf no fixed abode.
KinshipThe Bloody Dawn
Outward Appearance


Race/Ethnicity: Éothéod / Rohirrim

Skin Tone: Pale yet with a sun-kissed face.

Height: Six feet, two inches.

Build: Lean and muscular, sinewy.

Eyes: Icy blue, his smiles are not always reflected in them. They can seem to stare through you and pierce the very depths of your soul.

Hair: He has golden hair much in the same manner of his kin which would regularly change the style of and would be well maintained.

Tattoos, Piercings, Marks, Scars, etc.: Strewn across his face is an old scar across his cheek, another marrs his lips and the beard he keeps. He has a long and deep scar down his left-hand side and another small nick just above his collarbone. Across his pectoral on the left would be a vicious claw mark that to a knowing eye would look to have been dealt him by a Wolf.

General description: Seaver has a fresh face and boyishly handsome features. Scars and a light beard that he would keep compulsively trim providing a rugged contrast. Indeed, the first thing you would notice would be how obsessively clean he would be. Sleek dark clothing of a fine quality giving him a lean and mean appearance. Yet despite this he would always bear a readily given smile and seem amicable enough, approachable even. Possessed of a humble charm. He can go unnoticed even, gliding footsteps carrying him where he needs to be, able to slip into the background. Understatement permeating his every move. He speaks with little trace of an accent and he would speak well. Mild-mannered, you would observe less of the boisterous nature usually afforded to his kin and he doesn't look that out of place given the influx of southerners into the Bree-lands. Slung across his shoulders would be a leather baldric, sleeping there in a scabbard with Rohirric runes carved upon it and lined with lambskin would be a sword of a slender profile, light, but flexible and strong. Pattern-welded. Common to men of his heritage would be the Wælseax, slung across the man's waist by a cord at his belt at the front as a symbol of all free-folk in his homeland. A dagger would rest at his back also in a sheath. An air of experience about him beyond his years you would note, as well as fluctuating moods. Having a tendency to withdraw at times. Broodingly introverted, and at other times be quite exuberant when the mood takes him. The man can be said to have a modest wealth given the fact that he would carry a sword of a good quality that would look as though it had been passed down from nobility and the fine stitch of his garments as mentioned before. Not likely to overly draw attention from most thieves, nor be sneered at by those of higher standing. His breath of late would often smell of strong liquor and pipe-weed.



Birth in Rohan, Edoras, a small farm, not far from the city.

Seaver grew up for the first five of his years on the farm, the son of Cynewyn and Siward. Born of indiscretion for Cynewyn was already married, she took a keen interest in the young friend of her son. Seaver's older brother. Leofric, would either have no idea of Seaver's true parentage or he would never have let on. His father was a Thane of Edoras, and thus it was Seaver came to be a bastard in life. Leofric was in his company. the son of a husband Cynewyn had in her youth. Her current husband at the time of Seaver's birth. A man who wasn't particularly all that nice to her, his name was Alfgar. Particularly when in the company of a man named Henliff he was exceptionally cruel. 

Seaver looked up to his older brother. A fine rider of the Mark he had become, decorated. Taking in part in many offensives against the Dunlendings, not always sanctioned by the higher ups. The young boy, blond of hair. He used to sneak out of a night, long would he gaze up at the stars. Watching, waiting. Pondering what was over yonder horizon. And he would always enjoy watching them, Their helmets gleaming in the beaming golden rays of sun. The plod of hooves. An altercation ensued in his fifth year between his birth and adopted father, resulting in the latter's death. He struck Cynewyn in the presence of Siward, and Siward thus ended him.

Travelling with his father's company.

For the next few years, the quietly shy boy would leave the farm. His mother not one to stand in the way of his dreams. Upon incessant pestering that he wished to be one of the riders in his father's company as Leofric was, despite having no idea of his true parentage. He was too skinny to lift a sword or be of much use in that regard. He would toil, running around after the numerous warriors. Cleaning, helping them maintain their equipment, polishing their boots. Anything to travel with them out on patrols, Already, he had an adventurous spirit. However, this company of men was prone to roguish behaviour. He would see before his very eyes things that no boy should. He did his best to keep his head down. Stay out of the way, they would frequent brothels and taverns some nights and Seaver merely sought to look after the men, feeling as though sometimes, in those smoky, mead drenched rooms that he was the only man of maturity there. For he certainly had no opportunity to be a child, there were no children around.

Drawn as he would be in his final year in the Mark, to a young girl named Neyaa Sunngifu. There the girl lived, upon a neighbouring farm. Subjected as she would be to the violent whims of Henliff, who daren't trouble his mother after what happened to Alfgar but she wasn't so lucky. Just beginning her climb into womanhood as he was showing the first steps of becoming a man. He would often visit his mother upon the farm during leave from the company. He would never have the opportunity to pluck up the courage to talk to Neyaa. Stuttering, the words always caught in his throat. Or influence in this situation in any way at all. He rode out for the last time not long after.

A campaign gone awry, an ambush upon the company. Separated from it's Captain. On all sides, surrounded by Dunlendings, and likely one of the first companies of Uruk Hai to surface near the border of the Isen.There was the clattering of spears upon shields, His elder brother Leofric, tall and proud led that noble defence. Seaver himself stood in the shield wall at the tender age of thirteen, the first time he had been expected to fight since dissappointingly thus far showing little aptitude. Next to his brother. He pissed his pants as is common among boys unblooded. The war cries of the savages and the black-bloods closed in around them. In spite of defiant cries. All men fell, a glancing blow to his helmet early in the battle took Seaver out of action, Knocked unconscious. He woke up among a sea of corpses, that very memory staying with him until this very day, the stench. The blood. He was the sole survivor along with his father who had given pursuit to the man who had betrayed them to the Enemy. He was to learn of his parentage then, and thus was faced with a choice. Exile with his father, to strange and foreign lands. Or returning to the farm. He chose the former. Onwards he went.

A life of misfortune would soon follow. Were it not enough that a boy such young should suffer such tragedy. Sadly, his tale is not that unique in that life can oft be cruel, short and brutal in these dark times. But the following years would really test the boy's spirit.

Separated from his new-found father once more, who had gone hunting. The exiled Thane of Edoras, doubtlessly stripped of title would go on without his bastard son, who in truth he never cared for as much as he should, only bringing him out of a sense of duty. Whilst he was hunting, in the wilds of Eriador. A band of brigands, headed up by a stout ginger man by the name of Brunmar came among the camp. There, Seaver would be press-ganged into the service of them for the next few years. And so it came to pass that he would indirectly be responsible for many deaths, and terrible deeds at the hands of these men. Thin, malnourished. They would feed him just enough. He had to learn to read the moods of the men, ingratiate himself with them. Until one day he plucked up the courage to escape.

The next few years summed up.

He met his father on the streets of Bree, a man whom had become a shadow of his former self. A petty criminal boss. A man whom very much regretted the deeds and life he had come to live through his shame at having lost all he had ever known and his grief. He had a young wife, a young son. Named after Leofric whom had died in battle all that time ago. Seaver had a half-brother. Seaver himself around this time was living out of Beggar's Alley. Having escaped with a young girl named Mabel, Tragedy was to strike again. Though he swore to save his father from himself the man perished, murdered. Shortly after he was manipulated by his wicked step-mother into pursuing vengeance. Even where innocents would be harmed. Pained by grief, and anger. He went along with her schemes. Until one day he came to his senses. He could not persecute his father's killer. She was only acting in self-defence. He slaughtered his step-mother. Freed the prisoners, and they vowed never to speak of this again. Forgiving Seaver for his crimes against them. He came into money. Rags to riches, His stepmother with claim to title in Rohan he spent some time as regent to his half-brother. He was even due to be married, but the man's darker urges brought upon by his misfortunes in life tore that relationship asunder. He had learnt to read, write and fight with sword, spear and shield from his eighteenth birthday onwards. A belated education, started late. He often served as a mercenary in this time to garner combat experience. He could shoot a bow. Hastily having attempted to learn all the skills that a nobleman truly should. Engaging in vigilantism, and murder of those he deemed to be unjust upon the streets for a good few years. Biding his time in between each kill so as to avoid detection.

The life was not for him. He abandoned his fortune, his responsibility. The bastard daughter he'd also acquired. Becoming a hard-drinking womaniser at the failure of his proposed marriage. Speaking to very few of the horrors, each person he had been close to in the years since dead and gone. He would have even murdered the girl he escaped the brigands with, Mabel. A fit of rage, mistaken accusation of betrayal. These losses would haunt the man. He has been in and out of relationships. Coming to believe in later days that he may be cursed. His emotional state questionable. Still despite all this he has managed to build up his own business as a merchant caravaner, determined to make coin through his own means and not through simply having it handed him on a silver platter. He recently returned from a long and profitable journey. Suffered yet another loss after a brief affair with a sixteen year old girl, her throat slit. And he has been sighted with the mercenaries of the Bloody Dawn. Tired as he would be of being alone. He discovered that his boyhood crush, Neyaa was in town some time ago. Torn in two different directions, wary of connecting with anyone, of confiding in them. Yet at the same time craving of it. But the son he sired of late and the mother, he recently moved away to escape from.

Who knows what the future may bring...


More than a few.

RelativesFather: Siward, Aunt: Ystcild, Brother: Leofric, Daughter: Rowena, Son: Sigstæinn, Son: Philan, Son: Thommus.

Eradric outright, he has other dislikes or people he is not keen on.

LovesHis freedom and the road. Of late, he still has a fondness for the drink but to a lesser degree.

Commitment, arrogant, boastful men and gossips. Unnecessary drama. Those who would deprive him or others of their freedom.

MotivationUncertain, he oft feels tugged in two different directions. He would seem to have a loyalty to certain individuals. Perhaps even a sense of duty. If he sees someone down on their luck, he has been known to be generous.

'I never claimed to be perfect, I am far from pure' 'Know she is a prize to be cherished and looked after, but do not guard her as a Dwarf hoards his gold and you shall always have her, far too many men make that mistake with their women.'

Seaver's Adventures

A Walk of Shame. 1 week 5 days ago
My innermost thoughts, XLIX - Is this not my curse? 3 weeks 18 hours ago
Sailing At Half-Mast. 5 weeks 16 hours ago
My innermost thoughts, XLVIII. - Two more pages. 10 weeks 13 hours ago
The Boy you Loved. 10 weeks 3 days ago
Seaver's Adventures

Seaver's Gallery

Seaver's Gallery