Warriors/Shieldmaidens

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[b]Demographics[/b]
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[b]Concubine(s):[/b] (erase if female)

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[b]Offspring:[/b]
[i]Name (age)[/i]



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[b]Stats[/b]
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[b]Height:[/b] Ft'In"
[b]Weight:[/b] 000lbs
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[b]Education Focus:[/b] Martial

[b]Positive Traits:[/b] Pick Four from Character Creation Link

[b]Negative Traits:[/b] Pick Four from Character Creation Link


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[b]Appearance and Character[/b]
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[b]Character Biography[/b]
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Name: Skoll RavenFeather
Sex: Male
Age: 27
Culture: Viking
Ethnicity: Scandinavian

Title(s): Warrior. In Viking terms, he is a “karl” or a “free man”.
Occupation: Warrior
House: His clan was known as the RavenFeather clan.
Religion: Norse Pagan
Location: Originally from Norway

Sexuality: Heterosexual
Spouse: N/A
Father: Balder RavenFeather
Mother: Brynja RavenFeather
Issue: N/A
Name and Title (age) N/A



Height: 5Ft' 11In"
Weight: 180lbs
Eye Color: Pale Blue
Hair Color: Blonde

Dominant Hand:  Right
Distinguishing Features:  A scar over his left eye.  His hands are tattooed black with the tattoos slowly grading into twisting, stylized flames up the forearms reaching to the bicep.

Scar(s): One over his left eye is the most immediately noticeable, though it is old and has since healed with no damage to the eye itself.  A smattering of an array of scars adorn his torso from the various fights he’s been in, none worthy of particular mention.  Battle scars that show experience and nothing more.

Piercing(s):  The canine tooth of a wolf pierces his left earlobe.

Education Focus: Martial

Positive Traits: Brave, Diligent, Patient, Temperate,

Negative Traits: Ambitious, Sadistic, Stubborn, Vengeful




Physical Appearance:  Skoll is nothing short of typical when it comes to what the visage of a Viking would be like.

First and foremost he was a warrior, and he was certainly built like one.  Raw rippling musculature laced across a broad chest that had been built up over years of wielding heavy axes for the love of wealth and war, tapers into ripped abdominals and narrower hips.  Lower still were muscle-bound legs used to marching through thick snow drifts, climbing the wild and rugged landscape or running long distances over desolate plains.  Across his hardened sun kissed skin lay the scars of countless battles that he wore with a warrior’s pride- each and every mark showing his imperfections as a fighter, his vulnerability as a mortal man, but also his strength to overcome his adversity in spite of these mistakes that hadn’t cost him- yet.  Memories adorn his skin in the form of dark, intricate tattoos across his chest and back.  Particularly noticeable though, (when his arms and legs are uncovered), is the way that his hands and feet are completely blackened as though he fell into several inches of black ash, the darkness rising up his fore-arms into stylized flames that lick past his elbows and eventually end at his biceps.

In attire, the man’s torso is born bare and free, a choice he makes because it ups the stakes of every battle.  It is as though he taunts his opponent with his vulnerability, confident in his ability to defend it without the need of armour.  Warm furs cover his shoulders as a mantle, extending into a half-cape that falls to the midpoint of his back.  More furs wrap his arms and legs for warmth where the extremities may suffer.  Sitting upon the furs draped over his shoulders are pauldrons carved from bone, strapped with the twisting, ornate ivory horns of bulls; a memento of victory over a rival who had plagued him for years and ended with Skoll eventually killing him.

The man’s face features upon a light tanned rugged complexion; wild and untamed like a Brumby, with a haphazardly braided mane to match.  Usually the hair on the left side of his pale blonde head is adorned with intricate plaits, woven with whatever muted coloured threads he had on hand at the time to give him an ever changing streak of chaos within the order he imposed upon the wayward strands.  The rest of his hair is usually flipped over to the right and left to hang loose and free, the symbolism known only to himself- though it does lend itself to that wild stallion appeal; one of strength, will and conviction to succeed.
A strong straight nose juts from his prominent brow, which overshadows the crisp blue hues of an intense gaze.  As with all eyes, Skoll’s may tell one everything about the man if they are careful not to be lost within the beautifully hazardous depths they hold.  For the unobservant though, they are like icy shields simultaneously burning with the hot passion of blue fire- an impossibility or hypocrisy of a man with intelligence shedding blood for meager spoils.  Below the sharp spearhead of his chiseled nose lie lips that are almost always cast into an unreadable expression. Acting as the gatekeeper to his shielded thoughts, (unlike his eyes that speak volumes more without the utterance of a single word), they rarely open to speak unless he has something pointed and worthwhile saying, at which point the listener is graced with dark smooth tones.  Calm and steady, his voice shows restraint and consideration, but an ever present threat within them remains like a strong undercurrent below still waters.

Personality: Put bluntly, Skoll may look like a typical Viking warrior, but in essence he doesn’t act like one.  This is because he doesn’t seem to have a clear motive behind his actions, not seeming to act upon the sins that plague other men; not for lust of blood or flesh, gluttony or greed. This makes him a bit of a mystery to the other men of whatever warband he happens to be in attendance of.  Some regard his strangeness with awe, some with fear, some with disgust or rivalry because of insecurities found within their own souls.  For as many battles he has fought against foreign forces, he’s fought as many feuds against those whom he runs with.  Still, there are also those that would follow him with unending loyalty if he only said the word, and yet, he never seeks for power or notoriety as a warchief, preferring the freedom to join with whomever is suiting his particular purposes at the time.  Perhaps that is part of his strange appeal that moves many to either love him or hate him so passionately.  The way that he wields his convictions so confidently, sometimes it seems his strength is inherently stitched into his spine.

Skoll’s selfish motives typically remain unclear.  On the battlefield he’s certainly sadistic, yet still capable of mercy; living by a code ingrained into his being through the wild blood of generations of Scandinavian savagery.  A dying breed that’s fighting against the inevitability of extinction.  Skoll continues to stubbornly follow the old ways in spite of more of his kin beginning to convert to the new religion. Recognising that civility comes at the cost of freedom, he sees the idea of society as nothing more than a different form of enslavement, one that wills a person to submit through obligations to arbitrary rules that make little sense other than as ways to protect the weak and bridle the strong.  A life he’d rather escape through death than see himself in servitude to.  Though this is the height of the reign of the Vikings, everyone knows that the tide may change at any time.




Skoll’s origins are not well known, even to himself, aside from the snippets of details he can remember from his early youth.  When he was roughly 5 years of age and already beginning the basics of training in the art of war, Skoll’s village was raided by a rival clan.  The attack came as a complete surprise and the only thing that he could remember well was the all consuming heat of the fire burning around him as their village was set alight. He didn’t remember how his mother shoved him out of the way just as a burning chunk of the structure fell upon her and his younger brother, crushing and killing them instantly.  The same chunk of structure that gave him an escape from the burning home as it tore through a burning wall.  He barely remembered clambering from the ruined house, flames licking at his heels and smoke billowing behind him, or how his father, the jarl, had seen him and subsequently engaged an intruder that was headed right for him, defending Skoll’s life with his own.  All that Skoll remembered was the heat of the flames, coughing up the soot from his lungs as the suffocating air permeated them through his breath, the stinging of his eyes from ember and acrid smoke, and something in his head telling him to run.  A voice that he listened to and as best he could- escaped into the nearby treeline.  As he reached it, he stumbled and fell, his face slamming into a jutted rock and knocking him out cold.  That was how he got the scar over his left eye.  He awoke hours later to find the village burned out and empty, with only the corpses of the dead left to tell the tale of what happened.  All he could do was leave them to rot.

From that day forth Skoll had been a quiet, lone wolf who held nothing but vengeance in his mind, though toward what he didn’t know exactly.  He was just angry but had nothing to blame.  With nowhere else to go, Skoll wandered for days to eventually find a neighbouring tribe that his father had taken him to several times, the jarl of that tribe being his father’s twin brother - Skoll’s uncle.  His father had always told him that the allegiance of their tribes were bound by something stronger than blood: spirit.  That if he ever needed to go somewhere, that his brother’s tribe would always take him in.  Which is exactly what they did.  The unfortunate tragedy proved as a forewarning to his uncle’s tribe who prepared to be hit next, ambushing those responsible and killing most of them.  The rest either escaped or were captured as slaves.

It didn’t bring closure to the young boy however, who voraciously thereafter participated in martial training in this new clan.  His uncle treated him like his own son even though he had several others over the course of the years.  Skoll’s uncle always maintained that Skoll was favoured by Odin and that’s why he’d been spared- his reasons for this is because of a strange curiosity that ravens seemed to take in the boy, and this strange relationship he held with those black omen bringers didn’t stop when he reached adulthood.  Of course, it could also just be superstitious eyes finding synchronicities in things that held no true meaning.  His uncle often told him of tales of the old gods, instilling the beliefs and way of life of their Norse ancestors strongly into the boy.  Since Skoll was an orphan it meant that he was to inherit nothing, and so, the young man did what most young men did when they came of an age where they could maintain a healthy independence - he joined a warband and sailed the seas, raiding the fattened coffers of undefended monasteries and provinces that held little defence against the marauders.  

In the course of the next few years, Normandy would be taken by the Vikings who established a strong hold over the lands, settling there as a staging ground for raids to occur further inland.  Mostly, they used the river systems as a fast means to travel from A to B, hitting many towns with speed and veracity that left their European targets reeling.  In that time Skoll had undertaken more raids than he could count, his spoils accumulating until he was able to comfortably afford farmland in the lands of his adoptive tribe which had since been passed to his eldest cousin.  Skoll didn’t seek to settle down however.  Amassing several slaves to work the lands to contribute to the well being of the clan that adopted him growing up, Skoll continued to risk his life through raiding rather than settling down.  Although he’d taken many women through convenient circumstances when opportunities arose, he’d never quite found one that he could envision a life with, and quite honestly, he wasn’t going to settle down until he did find one- if ever.

Thus it was that Skoll finds himself travelling inland from Normandy in search of fresh fields to plunder with a warband that held no name.  This warband held Odin close to their hearts however, which is why Skoll felt such a kinship with them and he had been at home with them for some years now.  Living for the thrill of the fight and the right to be free, he had no desperate need for anything else.  He would die happily with some sharp pointed object wedged through his heart one day, at least that’s what he hoped, but until then he had a glorious gift that was his life and he intended to fight for it until the bitter end.

Name: Gorm Arnulfrsson
Sex: Male
Age: 25
Culture: víkingr
Ethnicity: Scandinavian

Occupation: Berserkr
Liege: Rogue
Religion: Norse Pagan
Location: Champagne, West Francia

Sexuality: Pansexual
Spouse: none
Partner(s): none
Concubine(s): none

Father: Arnulfr Karisson
Mother: unknown
Offspring: none



Height: 6'0"
Weight: 238lbs
Eye Color: Grey
Hair Color: Red

Dominant Hand: Right, but he is ambidextrous
Distinguishing Features: Most noticeable would be a thick red beard braided and held in place with metal rings, after that would be the tattoos and scars over the formidable man’s body

Scar(s): the man doesn’t seem to have a single limb or part of his body that doesn’t have a scar on it, the true markings of a Berserkr
Piercing(s): none

Education Focus: Martial: Tough Soldier
Survival: basic survival to make shelter, find food, and water.
Botany: Nothing grand like a Herbalist just the know how to find one particular type of mushroom Amanita muscaria

Positive Traits: Zealous, Herculean, Wrathful and Herbalist
Negative Traits: Impatient, Gluttonous, Compassionate and Generous




Gorm is a large man even by víkingr standards but that is to be expecting from a fabled Berserkr. He stands above most men packed tight with muscles that he works on every single day if not with weights than with the constant raids he finds himself joining in on. He has ceremonious tattoos in blue adorned across his body many with a different meaning but his most prominent one is the one on his chest which is a symbol that came to him for a bear the animal that Gorm spiritualizes with before combat. His beard while messy is always in multiple braids held together with metal rings that clamp tightly around the hair, the hair on the top of his head has some length at the very top but is cleanly cut or shaved to keep the hair out of his eyes.
His armor is very little if any at all at a given time. Normally he has on a classic víkingr armored leggings along with thick leather boots that are watertight for raids on shallow shores. He wears leather bracers for protecting against minor blows his shoulders however have heavy plating protecting his shoulders but leaving him the movement to swing his axes or sword.
He carries on his person four objects that he considers weapons. One is a trusty shield for when pesky archers decide to pick off his brothers before they even have a chance at glorious combat, second is a sword handed down to him from his father he uses only in emergencies, it never leaves his side. A small axe that is easy to use to parry the strikes of his foes or even throw at an enemy that runs too fast for him to catch up, and lastly is his darling Torgärd a large axe that most smaller men would have to use two hands to even carry. Gorm does not care to use it properly when he uses it in one hand, he does simple motions that even a babe could do with a heavy stick, and if he needs destructive power, he will take it into both of his hands and bring it down on his enemies. Almost every armor or cloth on him has bear fur lining the underneath.
Gorm is a Berserkr in combat he is furious and destructive destroying all in his path or dying in the effort to make that happen. The Berserkr fury serves him well in combat, but it haunts him outside of it. Gorm is not a big tough brute in his day-to-day life. He enjoys spending time with children from the villages, towns, and clans that he visits. Without his fury he can kill but unlike his brethren he kills swiftly and without malice. He actively stops his brothers from raping and torturing the people they are raiding, and if he finds someone in those situations before he can stop it, he always puts them out of his misery. Without direct orders Gorm wouldn’t even want to hurt a butterfly let alone another person but he knows you can only get so far and will resort to violence in order to stop further violence. He is a man of duality that does what he hates because it’s the only way he can help.
Gorm is also a firm believer in all the Norse deities including Odin. He is constantly seen starting his days and ending them in different types of prayer to all the different gods that he has chosen to believe in. His faith in them is without question and he will do as the gods command.


Gorm started his life in an untraditional way but not a way totally out of the norm for a víkingr, he was born in a small house in the desolate unforgiving mountains of his nation. A place unfit for farming and the only people brave enough to even dare try to live there were huntsmen and Vǫlvas. Gorms father Arnulfr was a huntsman and on the day Gorm was born he had the greatest blessing and tragedy befall him. With the birth of his son, he lost his beloved wife. With the lack of Maternal guidance Gorm felt a disconnect to love for most of his life but unlike many who would lash out Gorm decided that if he did not get love he would give it. He took it upon himself to feed the wildlife around him, to clean up the house for his Father and even do general maintenance on all his Father’s weaponry used for hunting and logging. Gorm was in his father’s eyes a perfect child he did what he was told and more. This led to his father teaching him the family craft a bit earlier than most world teach their child and Gorm actually showed a real knack for it and especially loved logging. When he didn’t want to hunt the boy cut down trees and hauled them home. Doing this every day just out of sheer boredom led to Gorm amassing a surprising amount of muscle and to become a behemoth of a boy. His father saw an opportunity instead of hunting small prey for the ease of transport he had a large son that could haul a real kill off. So, one fateful day Gorm and Arnulfr set out to hunt wolves but what they ended up running into would change both.

The two of them tracked wolf prints for days Arnulfr made sure Gorm remembered basic survival in the woods from all the lessons he gave Gorm growing up. The two of them were actually having a good time and Arnulfr even let his fourteen-year-old son have a taste of his first a little early of a celebration, but they would have food a plenty for the next month once they finished this. They tracked the wolves to a cave; his father knew what to do he started a fire in the mouth of the cave and let the smoke blow into the cave to spook any creatures inside out. Soon they would both be met with fear as a brown bear was the one that came hurrying out of the cave. The beast was in a rage, it couldn’t breathe everything around it was a target. Arnulfr did his best and sent some arrows flying into the beast, but it did very little to stop the bear. Soon the bear was on him slashing him into a tree and ready to tear him limb from limb. Gorm stood there in shock at first, he couldn’t believe it wasn’t wolves it was a bear. However, when he saw his father go flying, he experiences, for the first time in his life, fury that would change him forever. Gorm took his logging axe in two hands and jumped onto the beast. The bear rose onto two legs and tried to shake Gorm off pawing at its back, but Gorm wasn’t going to be moved by such a creature. He grabbed onto the bears fur and wrapped his legs around it’s sides and began to bash its head in with his axe. The bear fought back for a time, even rolling on the ground trying to crush the lad, but adrenaline is one’s friends in times like these and soon enough the bear was subdued and slain by Gorm. This was his first act of war, a war against one of nature’s most mighty children and he won. Though what happened soon after Gorm never remembers he only knows what he was told.

Grom would wake up days later with his entire body in braces and wrappings, everything hurt the poor boy. Later he found out that a Volva by the name of Hallfrid Sigvidottir heard the bears roar and came to investigate the scene finding a slain bear, a dead man and a boy barely hanging on. She saved him and made sure to take his father’s sword to allow the boy a chance to keep his family close to his heart. Gorm cried for days, Gorm screamed for days…he had never experienced such sadness and anger all at once. Hallfrid while saddened for the boy saw an opportunity to teach him so he’d never have to go through this again. She taught him a bit about botany just enough to know how to make the fabled Berserkr Brew, a potion that gifts the Berserkr with the strength and formidability of a wild animal. Grom wanted this potion but to understand its affect he also had to learn its purpose. He spent four years with Hallfrid, in those years he learned how to use his weapons, got to know the Nordic Gods on what he would say a personal level and learned the might of the Berserkr Fury. After a long four years with Hallfrid Gorm finally bid her farewell, he was off to join a warband, he wanted to be there to help fathers return to the children waiting for them at home, this time the bear was going to save a father instead of taking him away.

For the next few years of his life, he went from Jarl to Jarl being a bodyguard for a short time, he never knew but apparently having the ability to go berserk was a rare thing amongst his own people. Though the job itself left him feeling hallow. He didn’t do much but look threatening and anytime he let his soft side show and people stopped fearing him the Jarls always let him go. Though from his time in the clans he got to see what warbands all were about. People always so happy when they returned with plunder from overseas except for the poor kids that lost a mother or a father. Grom decided to do his part to put an end to that. He joined a warband and became a monster that protected the fathers and mothers of the vikingr people. While on this part of his life he learned of another who also participated in the raids. A man by the name of Skoll who was rumored to be favored by Odin himself. Grom had to meet this man, one favored by Odin deserved to have a Berserkr there to help him. It wasn’t long before he found the man and slowly began to understand what the rumors were all about. Grom and Skoll likely very seldomly talked but any with a perceptive eye would notice Grom followed Skoll from warband to warband. He followed what he believed was his God’s chosen champion. Present day Grom finds himself in a warband without a name, for they did not need one they had Odin and that was all Grom needed.