Trouble Kelp
Loyal Servant of Altera
Name: Ulfur Myrkris
Nickname/Alias: Some call him trouble, but most call him Ulf
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Height: 6 feet 6 inches
Weight: Around 220 pounds, solid muscle.
Hair: A knotted mane of black hair runs down his back, wild and untamed. A short black beard covers his mouth.
Eyes: His eyes are ice blue, filled with resolve and quiet strength
Skin: His skin is darkened from the heat of the fire, and hardened by the snowy northern winds.
Identifying Marks: A series of ancestral tattoos run across his chest, and scars cover his arms from the forge....and other, more painful times.
Appearance: Ulfur is usually seen wearing his blacksmiths apron and a bearskin cloak to fend off the cold. He wears woolen breeches and high boots to protect against the cold. On his right hand is a silver ring; the only thing of value he owns. He has an accent, but not as thick as one would expect.
Attitude: Ulfur is a man of few words...when he does speak he avoids pleasantries, always cutting to the point. Usually stoic, he does possess a sense of humor, yet rarely smiles or laughs.
Strengths: He is incredibly strong, quite intelligent, and has strong morals. He is a masterful smith, but shows his work to few.
Weaknesses and fears: While strong, he will never harm anyone if he can help it. He never uses a sword, bow, or any other type of weapon, preferring his own two fists. In addition, he does not use magic or potions, but does not judge those who use them.
Religion and cults: Ulfur pays lip service to Harateth, but he reserves most of his worship for Korog and Theodra....they are of more use to him where he lives.
Profession: Blacksmith
Relationship with other races: Ulfur gets along best with humans and dwarves. He can cope with elves, caparii, and halflings, but he hates orcs and demons with a fiery intensity, refusing to work with them.
Sometimes things don't always go according to plan...the story of my life.
I don't profess to be a good man. Good men don't do what I've done...they haven't seen what I've seen. I cannot put my past behind me...but I can look towards the future. I can't profess to be a good man...but I'm trying to be. Maybe one day I will be. Maybe...
A small village in the mountains. It has no name, too small to merit one. A few snow covered houses huddle together, as if for warmth, and the fires sputter from the cold morning air. The westmost house is slightly larger than the others, and there is a forge outside of it. A single man stands at the fire, hammering away at a freshly made icepick.
"Ulfur! Hie, Ulfur!"
Ulfur turns around, a hammer in his hands. The smoke of the fires hangs about his workplace in an oppressive cloud, framing Ulfur like a fiery god. He wipes a hand across his brow to remove the sweat, then tries to look out to see who called him. He narrows his eyes upon seeing Baen, the woodcutters boy; he is waving wildly for attention.
Baen yells through the smoke, "Ulfur! Please, my father need ye...he's down in the ravine!"
Ulfur grunts, then lays down his hammer and removes his apron. He jogs down the narrow mountain path towards the ravine, Baen following behind.
"Father lost some sheep this winter...when his prize ram wandered out, he went after it in the middle of the storm last night. He didn't come back in the morning, so I went lookin' for him. Rock slide had caught him and the ram in a crack...he told me to go find help...", Baen told Ulfur as he ran behind him, short legs striving to keep up with the taller man's long strides. The two of them ran for half an hour before they reached the bottom of the ravine, where a grey pile of newly fallen rock disrupted the white landscape.
Ulfur spoke but two words when they reached the bottom.
"Wait here."
The boy obeyed, while Ulfur walked up to the pile of rocks where Baen's father was. He bent down, and one rock at a time, began to move them away from the mouth of the crevice. Boulders larger than horses he strained against until they moved, sweat collecting on his arms. Soon, Ulfur uncovered an arm, then a breathing body and a very angry ram hidden beneath the rocks. His work done, Ulfur turned to Baen and motioned him to come.
"We need to get him back to the village."
Baen nodded and picked up the ram. Ulfur hoisted Baen's father up with no apparent difficulty, running back up the mountain in the cold morning air.
Nickname/Alias: Some call him trouble, but most call him Ulf
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Height: 6 feet 6 inches
Weight: Around 220 pounds, solid muscle.
Hair: A knotted mane of black hair runs down his back, wild and untamed. A short black beard covers his mouth.
Eyes: His eyes are ice blue, filled with resolve and quiet strength
Skin: His skin is darkened from the heat of the fire, and hardened by the snowy northern winds.
Identifying Marks: A series of ancestral tattoos run across his chest, and scars cover his arms from the forge....and other, more painful times.
Appearance: Ulfur is usually seen wearing his blacksmiths apron and a bearskin cloak to fend off the cold. He wears woolen breeches and high boots to protect against the cold. On his right hand is a silver ring; the only thing of value he owns. He has an accent, but not as thick as one would expect.
Attitude: Ulfur is a man of few words...when he does speak he avoids pleasantries, always cutting to the point. Usually stoic, he does possess a sense of humor, yet rarely smiles or laughs.
Strengths: He is incredibly strong, quite intelligent, and has strong morals. He is a masterful smith, but shows his work to few.
Weaknesses and fears: While strong, he will never harm anyone if he can help it. He never uses a sword, bow, or any other type of weapon, preferring his own two fists. In addition, he does not use magic or potions, but does not judge those who use them.
Religion and cults: Ulfur pays lip service to Harateth, but he reserves most of his worship for Korog and Theodra....they are of more use to him where he lives.
Profession: Blacksmith
Relationship with other races: Ulfur gets along best with humans and dwarves. He can cope with elves, caparii, and halflings, but he hates orcs and demons with a fiery intensity, refusing to work with them.
Sometimes things don't always go according to plan...the story of my life.
I don't profess to be a good man. Good men don't do what I've done...they haven't seen what I've seen. I cannot put my past behind me...but I can look towards the future. I can't profess to be a good man...but I'm trying to be. Maybe one day I will be. Maybe...
A small village in the mountains. It has no name, too small to merit one. A few snow covered houses huddle together, as if for warmth, and the fires sputter from the cold morning air. The westmost house is slightly larger than the others, and there is a forge outside of it. A single man stands at the fire, hammering away at a freshly made icepick.
"Ulfur! Hie, Ulfur!"
Ulfur turns around, a hammer in his hands. The smoke of the fires hangs about his workplace in an oppressive cloud, framing Ulfur like a fiery god. He wipes a hand across his brow to remove the sweat, then tries to look out to see who called him. He narrows his eyes upon seeing Baen, the woodcutters boy; he is waving wildly for attention.
Baen yells through the smoke, "Ulfur! Please, my father need ye...he's down in the ravine!"
Ulfur grunts, then lays down his hammer and removes his apron. He jogs down the narrow mountain path towards the ravine, Baen following behind.
"Father lost some sheep this winter...when his prize ram wandered out, he went after it in the middle of the storm last night. He didn't come back in the morning, so I went lookin' for him. Rock slide had caught him and the ram in a crack...he told me to go find help...", Baen told Ulfur as he ran behind him, short legs striving to keep up with the taller man's long strides. The two of them ran for half an hour before they reached the bottom of the ravine, where a grey pile of newly fallen rock disrupted the white landscape.
Ulfur spoke but two words when they reached the bottom.
"Wait here."
The boy obeyed, while Ulfur walked up to the pile of rocks where Baen's father was. He bent down, and one rock at a time, began to move them away from the mouth of the crevice. Boulders larger than horses he strained against until they moved, sweat collecting on his arms. Soon, Ulfur uncovered an arm, then a breathing body and a very angry ram hidden beneath the rocks. His work done, Ulfur turned to Baen and motioned him to come.
"We need to get him back to the village."
Baen nodded and picked up the ram. Ulfur hoisted Baen's father up with no apparent difficulty, running back up the mountain in the cold morning air.
