@Shadras
Name: Alfhild Thell the Bastard (name, excluding her "title" meaning Elf Battle Fortune, in a literal translation)
Age: 23
Race: Half-breed of Fenrir(Nord) and Lorrite
Class: Warrior (of Ice)
Description: An imposing 185 cm, Alfhild stands above many, but not all. Down her to the middle of her back would cascade golden straw colored hair, if she didn't braid it so often. Tied into one, or into many, Alfhild Thell tames the only tamable part of her, her hair. Her face would be fair, and perhaps some would still call it that, if it weren't for the grime of travel and the single scar that traces down her left temple and down her neck.
However, its most striking feature are her eyes. A bright, shining blue. Pale though, and the overall appearance of her eyes is most like ice. Cold and cutting and said to be able to stare down even a snarling bear with them alone.
The rest of her is strong muscle, tough as wires, entombed in gambeson, chain, and plate that is chipped and worn, but well cared for. Faded paint adorns the pauldrons and helm while a short, cape-like cloth of the same faded blue hangs from her waist. Her weapon, a bastard sword and a "gift" from one of her older half-brothers, is similarly worn along with a small collection of throwing axes.
Personality: Anyone who can remember the last time Alfhild Thell smiled, must have known her when she was a baby. Here eyes match her demeanor all too well, cold, distant, and ready to lash out against anyone who attempt to get friendly, flirt, rage, attack, or almost anything. She's the best warrior of the (known) Thell children, and she won't let anyone forget it.
Above all else, she's driven with the steadfastness of the seasons to complete her quest. Nothing will stop her from finding the sword, giving it to her father, and the claiming honor and renown for her own. Nothing! Or at least, she tries to tell herself that all three will happen.
Deep down, Alfhild is terrified. Terrified of never being truly recognized. Not just in the clan, but by anyone. Half-nord, half-human, both equally unloved by any side, she lashes out at everyone. Even those who could be allies in her endeavors. She feels that if she hits hard enough, strikes fast enough, she will no longer been known as the title she claimed to spite everyone, "the Bastard," but a woman and warrior of merit.
(Oh dear, where is her history? You'll have to keep reading I guess. I decided to put the Thells' histories together, with their own dividing sections)
Name: Vidar Thell (meaning Warrior from the Forest Fortune, literal translation)
Age: 23
Race: Half-breed of Nord(Fenrir) and Lorrite
Class: Sorcerer/Shaman
Description: This first odd impression one would have of Vidar is of a man in need of a bath. Not that he smells bad. In fact, he smells oddly...well...fresh. It's as if the scent of a pine or effects of fresh rain in a wood or the perfume of a flower softly cling to Vidar. One would only notice it if they decided to lean in and sniff him, an event that he might not consider strange. No, what gives away that Vidar needs a bath is the dirt. It's on his face, his clothes, and likely in his boots as well.
After a well needed bath, one would mark Vidar's height to be 185 cm, that he has a wiry build that belies flexible, fast muscles with a short shock of raven hair, a lack of any beard, and a bright green eye. Yes, only one. His left eye has vistages of the right's brightness, but has gone milky under the set of parallel scars that drag down his face. In fact, the rest of his body is similarly marked and you could swear some are even bite marks. At which point, Vidar would blush and seek out his clothes, of which were worn, tattered, and faded that you may have burned them along with his pack, although not its contents, without the slightest twinge of guilt.
The only thing that Vidar has that might not belong in the fire is his staff. Hand carved Ash with strange swirling designs that, upon closer inspection, appear Nordic. He'd tell you that he has no idea of its connection of cultures and simply thought they looked good when he carved it. In a notch on the staff is a soft, blue flower with a green bulb that appears to be fading and dying but still clinging on.. The last, and perhaps strangest, thing to know about Vidar is that, every now and then, one could swear they hear hissing coming from him. Upon asking, he claims it's nothing, although its hard to agree with him as he refuses to meet anyone's gaze.
Personality: Inquisitive to a fault. He wants to find out about cultures, politics, fighting styles, agriculture techniques, and so much more. A shame he can't read. Most of all, he seeks to discover the meaning of his dreams. However, he guards those dreams dearly and tells only people he feels he can trust completely and, despite his incredible innocence, he has never met a person he trusted enough. His chief dream is of a woman with golden hair, seeking some strange, powerful sword. And he knows that he must seek out both her and the sword. Why? He wonders at that, but the dreams give no answer, only compulsion.
Now Vidar's innocence is a strange one for it pertains only to social norms. He rarely catches that he's being lied to, but he's hard to coerce. It's easy to con him, but hard to seduce him. His innocence has lead to his honesty. In no way could he tell a lie. That doesn't mean he can't deceive, mislead, and confuse. It means he doesn't do it with words, but with actions. Vidar has picked up some social norms, such as not simply stealing an apple if he's hungry, but these are a thin veil for his more primal nature.
At his heart, Vidar is wild, borderline feral. He acts first on instinct and considers his actions later. Ferociously territorial of anything he feels is valuable to him, including people. Never let him catch you in a lie or deceit. At best, it will take him days, or even weeks, to forgive you. At worst, he may outright attack you.
(Huzzah! History time. I'm going to try and keep it brief so that I can have some fun character development moments as they talk about their pasts in more detail when other characters draw out their stories and so that this post won't be too long. Goodness knows how long it is so far because I can't tell due to the size of the window. If any of you want a more detailed account, I will be happy to provide you with one.)
History:
Both: Vidar and Alfhild Thell came into this world from a raid. An Orc raid with Nord slave-soldiers fell upon some of the north most Lorrite villages. Why arm the slave Nords? It was safe and secure enough with the number of orcs to Nords and, more importantly, it gave a few Nords a more gilded cage. They could go out, raid, fight, and enjoy the feeling of freedom and help keep the other Nords in line. Numbered among the raiders was one Lord Thell, leader of his clan, great warrior, and the most eager for blood. He and his three eldest sons lead the assault, slayed the village guard leader, and plundered the village's big-house. Trifle feats for any Nord, not even a warrior at that. However, while it did not bring any glory, it brought a prize. A prize that Thell felt worthy of him. The village chief's daughter, a young, raven-haired woman, tried to save her mother from the axe of Thell. A desperate swing of a cleaver, a catch of her arm, and Clan Lord Thell knew he had his prize. Holding her tight, Thell finished his butchering and carried her off with the other stolen goods and to-be thralls.
9 months to the day, the raven haired woman who Thell and never bothered to learn the name of, gave birth to twins in a large, multi-roomed hovel for the Nords upon Orcish land. Now, twins are considered special, if not even sacred, in Nordic culture for it is believed that, when twins are born, the maker had formed a soul too great for one body and had to split both the soul and body into two. Two-halves of a great and powerful soul. As is further Nordic custom, each child is blessed by a shaman in the pantheon of shrines. With shamans, for all intents and purposes, being exterminated or even wiped out, this tradition fell upon the father to do. It would be the only time Nords would even separate the twins as each ritual is for the individual child, and not the other.
Thell took the first-born, the golden haired babe with eyes like his own, lifted her high and, for the first and only time to date, smiled at her, naming her Alfhild, warrior elf, for her looks and his dreams. Taking her and his entourage out, the thrall-mother was alone for the first time since her enslavement. Seized with sudden desperation and a strange surge of strength, she carried her other child into the storm.
The snow fell so thick and fast that the Orcish watchers did not see her leave the collection of hovels, did not see her leave the small, unwalled town, did not see her stumble into the forest at its border. After all, what would drive someone out into the blizzard, save for madness?
The blessing proceeded normally, but when Thell returned for his son, he found the room empty. Mother and child gone. From that moment onward, he regarded Alfhild with disdain for she was not only his bastard half-breed, but only half of what she should be.
The mother plunged onward, weakening in the snow and forest. Her baby was silent, asleep, and at peace, but woke with a startling cry. The free thrall desperately tried to hush the boy, and she missed the silent approach of wolves until the fist bite sank into her side. Flailing, dying, she lost her life and her hold upon the baby. The pack then advanced upon the child but, perhaps in chance, perhaps it was the spirits, but instead of feasting upon the boy, they claimed him as their own.
Alfhild: Half-breed of Lord Thell, Alfhild lead a troubled childhood. She tried to smile, to bear it as best she could, but soon realized that smiles would not win her father's affection. So she turned to anger, fighting her siblings and the other Nord children. It earned her bruises, it earned her broken bones, it earned her lashes from the Orc handler for hurting the master's slaves, but it did not earn her her father's attention, let alone his affection.
Lord Thell lead a rebellion against the orcs there, killing them all. Alfhild herself would kill the master's youngest son when she was ten. The Nords then left the ruins of the town, knowing the orcs would come. Weeks later, Thell would base his operations in one of the northern mountain ranges, striking brutally at the orcs where he could. All the while, Alfhild would train doggedly, raid dangerously, and fight with frozen efficiency to attempt to earn her fathers favor. Long ago had the fire of her anger burned out and had been replaced with icy coldness and frigidity to rival the snow-capped peaks. But nothing she did would turn his attention to her.
Other Clan Lords would rebel and had already rebelled, with varying degrees of success. Their greatest inhibition is the lack of unity. None could agree who aught to be the leader, the chief of the Clans. So Thell tasked his children with a mission, one that could unite the clans, to find the greatsword Dreyri, the sword of blood. Whoever wields that, the sword of the Clan Lord who brought all the Nords to this land, would be able to reunite the Clan Lords and wage war upon the Orcs. So Alfhild set out. She has turned her gaze southward where she believes the sword may have been lost there or that any shaman who would be most likely to survive the purge would have fled south. With ice and steel, she comes.
Vidar: Vidar grew well with wolves. As strange as that might be to say. Despite being slower, he was more ingenious than the pack could be. While they taught him to hunt, the hidden trails of the woods, and the simple ferocity of beast, it was his dreams that taught him how to think. His dreams brought him words, speech, songs of lands that Vidar couldn't even imagine. They would also swarm his shadows, strange figures that flit across his mind, none distinct. But something tells him, almost a voice in his dreams, that he will be able to see them clearly one day. And, upon his tenth birthday, it gave him his name. Vidar Thell. Fortunate Warrior of the Forest.
From a young age, Vidar knew about his magic. Since he couldn't remember another human, he always assumed that it was his magic that made him appear so different from his wolf family and he would often try to shift back, but always failed. That didn't stop him from honing his talent in other ways. Guided by his own inquisitive nature and vague guidings of his dreams, Vidar has developed a strange hybrid of human magic and Nordic shamanism. Spiritual would be its best term perhaps. This magic, however, would call the attention of the strange mythical creatures found only in the remote places of the world.
It was the dryad who found him. Perhaps it was fortunate that it was only a single dryad. She came upon him as he was hunting. Her interest in his power, his in seeing his first humanoid shape lead to battle of wills, magic, and natural ferocity. One that ended in a stale-mate, and then, a friendship. Together, they made a deal, to exchange part of their power, their knowledge. She gave Vidar a flower from herself, he gave her the vision from his left eye. She taught him how to hide his magic, to camouflage it. He taught her how to tap into her ancestral roots. Although, neither truly knew what the other would be doing with the results of the trade, nor the distant uses both would have.
It was then that Vidar decided to leave his wolf family. Or rather, he was guided to. With his dreams growing more distinct, Vidar learned of humanity to the far south through his nature friend. He traveled months and, just before he turned 23, he arrived in Lorr.
