Fiorin Halvar
Physical Age: 23
Fiorin Halvar was considered by his peers to have the blood of gods flowing within him. It would be a surprise to no man if it were true. He stands at a monstrous 7'9", and though his exact weight was never known, he's guessed to be around 350lbs with his naturally large skeletal frame and massive, yet flexible muscles. His head is adorned with long, black hair, and a medium length beard on his chin to match it. His brows are thick, but gracefully curved, and his eyes are a sky-like shade of blue that is further accented by the dark circles around his eyes. Having lived in a cold region for most of his life, his skin is pale; nearly white. While he clings to no single style of clothing, he does prefer the brims of his armor adorned with the furs of slain beasts, which is a show of strength in his culture.
Attributes and Abilities
Strength
Damage - While the tribes of barbarians were considered to tower over normal men, even they looked toward Fiorin as though he was a monster. His god-like strength and rigorous training allows him to smash through armor and bones with ease.
Athletics - Underestimating his dashing speed and maneuverability, many foes attempt to find a safe distance between themselves and Fiorin. Some even assume he is helpless once disarmed. They are gravely mistaken. Fiorin lunges at his foes like a wild beast, and tosses grown men by their limbs and throats as though they were rag dolls.
Constitution
Soak - Fiorin has been lit ablaze by shaman's fire, only to have the shaman's spell negated by the caster's immediate death. He has had tens of arrows protruding from his body, only for the archers to look on in terror as his maddened charge continued. The blades of his foes would finally find a chance at Fiorin's throat, only to be stopped by his bare hands. It is nigh impossible to stop his momentum.
Weapon Proficiencies
Zweihander - Being ideal for Fiorin's cleaving swings and monstrous strength, the zweihander has quickly become the barbarian's favorite. The design also allows for flexibility, the handles on the sides allowing it to be wound up and used much like a polearm for stabbing through thick materials and dismounting cavalry.
Bastard Sword - The bastard sword is flexible in the fact that its designed for both two-handed and one-handed styles. Though, should Fiorin pick one up, it's typically because he deemed a shield necessary for the moment, or at least, until he finds out where any archers are hiding.
Fighting Styles
Brawling - Only fools think themselves clever enough to separate Fiorin from his weapon. It is only choosing between being carved in half, or beaten beyond their own mother's recognition.
Background
The warring tribes of the north were constantly at war. For women, wealth, land, honor, old grudges, or even boredom... the reasons mattered little. Battle was what made a man strong. After having slain their foes, they would return to their wives filled with mead and birth more warriors for the never ending wars.
Fiorin Halvar was the son of his tribe's warlord; he was the sole heir to the Ebonmane Clan's throne. Morale was high as their soon-to-be leader continued to grow in strength, and cut down unspeakable numbers of men. Banquets were held in his honor after battle, having made more progress as a tribe than they had made in decades. Drunken songs filled the taverns with stories of Fiorin's blade cleaving a hundred men with a single stroke and belching thunder. Though his comrades would always celebrate with song and drink, Fiorin did so only by custom.
However, one by one, other powerful clans were being overcome by a newly formed tribe that called themselves the Thunder Callers. Though rival clans of the Ebonmane Clan's were being torn asunder by this new tribe, it was of little comfort. Surviving warriors of the defeated clans babbled on madly about the opposing leader. They spoke of a hammer the size of a man's body, being swung effortlessly with one hand by a shamanistic warrior, said to command the frozen seas and summon storms from the clouds. They spoke of him as an angry god.
The Ebonmane Clan prepared for what they knew would be their greatest battle yet. It would not be long before they would find out if the tales were true or not.
Death
Even on their own doorstep, the Ebonmane Clan was easily destroyed. The number of tribes that united with the Thunder Callers was too great. For every man in the Ebonmane Clan, there were twenty of the Thunder Callers. The waves of the ocean crashed against the land violently, lightning illuminating the watery destruction that brought many women and children in the village to their watery graves. The strongest of the Thunder Callers made it to the hills, where a fierce battle ensued at the castle. Lightning blasted away the barricades and gates, leaving the warlord defenseless... now, only a handful of the Ebonmane Clan remained, having barely survived the battle within the castle. One out of that handful was the invincible Fiorin Halvar, his right arm clenching his favored zweihander tightly, and on his left shoulder, his dead king and father. It was no surprise that he took no time to mourn. Fiorin had always seemed emotionless and cold, so much so that no man in the village had seen him smile, even as a child. In a way, it was what made him the ideal warrior, and what made so many follow him as they did now.
"What are we doing here, Fiorin?! We should have died in battle with the warlord!" one of the warriors shouted above the torrential downpour.
"Death will come to us soon enough." Fiorin replied calmly. "Until then, we give our king a proper burial."
The other warriors looked to one another. Some smirked, some raised a quizzical brow, some nodded, but all were ready for one last glorious battle, in the name of their king's honor. From the castle, they made their way down the cliffs and to the beaches, where they would find a proper ship to send their king off to the afterlife. The warriors of the Thunder Callers quickly gave chase.
The voice of the Thunder Callers' leader echoed across the cliffs as he raised his legendary hammer victoriously, "Let no man rest until I have their king's head!"
As Fiorin boarded one of the ships, his men remained on the beach. "He was a great king, Fiorin." one warrior stepped forward, and pressed two gold coins into his left hand. "It's not much, but... it should buy him a nice home in the hereafter."
"No. It shall be a good home for us all." Fiorin looked at them proudly as they pushed the ship off to sea, and turned to face their foes at the shore. As Fiorin prepared the pyre, the sounds of metal clashing and men screaming their last could be heard from behind him. However, he needed not look back at them; he knew they would fight well.
An overhang of animal skins partially covered the king's body from the rain as his body lay on the pyre. With some effort, Fiorin was able to find flint in order to properly light the oil upon his father's armor. Though the shore was gone from Fiorin's sight, he hoped that if any of his warriors remained, they would be able to see the faint flicker of flame from where they fought so bravely; fought to ensure their king's honor remained intact. Though they'd lost everything, they had at least scavenged this one small victory for the Ebonmane Clan. Fiorin bowed his head in reverence as he lay the king's blade ceremonially across his body. His father's flesh burned, and slowly turned to ash, cast to the raging winds...
Suddenly, lightning flashed, and as the light faded, a figure as massive as Fiorin appeared, clad in silvery armor and blue drapery. He had gray hair and a full beard, with an eye patch that only partially hid a deep scar in his left eye. In his right hand he held a warhammer that was comparable to a normal man's height, etched with glowing blue runic markings and sapphires. It was the leader of the Thunder Callers. Fiorin picked up his zweihander and quickly as he could, but he was too late. The hammer of the Thunder Caller smashed into his chest, nearly sending the young warrior off the ship's bow.
"The Ebonmane fought well. These words are the most I can do to honor your bravery, I'm afraid."
Fiorin gasped for air, "You... won't take him!" he reached again for his blade.
"Save your words, lad." the thunderous hammer crashed through the sword and the wooden boards beneath it, blasting a hole in the ship and sending the zweihander to the sea below, intending to crush any hope Fiorin had of winning.
To the Thunder Caller's surprise, Fiorin did not hesitate with his weapon gone. He lunged forward, tackling his foe with all his might, and grabbing his father's sword. The Thunder Caller's back was thrown against the wooden railing, the brute force of the young warrior's charge having caught him off guard. In his brief moment of disorientation, Fiorin drove his father's blade deep through his assailant's ribcage, impaling him through the heart, and into the bow of the ship.
The Thunder Caller lay still, bleeding heavily through his fatal wound. Fiorin spit on the body, hardly having regained his composure. He reached for the king's sword in order to return it to the burial site, and just as he grabbed the hilt... laughter came from the "dead" body of the Thunder Caller. Fiorin quickly drew the blade in a startle, expecting the body to fall... but it didn't. The Thunder Caller stood as though nothing happened, the wound closing up beneath his armor.
"Cocky pup." the once fallen 'shaman' chuckled. "You are indeed Fefnir Halvar's boy. Did you think yourself the first to have 'killed' me?"
Fiorin had seen many men get up from things they should not, but this was unlike that. This man should have died instantly. "What the in the hells are you?!"
"They call me many things. Allow me to say this though... your blade will never kill me, mortal..." lightning lit the skies as the immortal being standing before Fiorin grabbed hold of his favored weapon once more, "...and I will have your father's head!"
Fiorin charged forward once again, intent on taking the immortal's head. He had heard tales of immortals-- mortal only to others of their kind-- from the village shamans and storytellers, but he'd thought it was all fairy tales. He'd faced hundreds of men and slain them with ease... "Why would this one not fall?!" he thought.
The barbarian's thoughts were interrupted as the hammer once again smashed into his torso, smashing the boy against the thick mast of the boat. This time was different though. Electricity ran through his veins, forcing him to lose muscle control. He couldn't move... he was helpless as the Thunder Caller approached him.
"It's a damn shame lad, but your strength is only great amongst mortal men." he said as he pressed the hammer's head against the body of the stunned warrior.
Thoughts rushed through Fiorin's head. His memories were flashing before him, and his mind fought to find an answer to what was happening before his eyes. In this chaos, a single glimmer of hope... the wound from the immortal's body healed nearly instantly. "Why does an immortal whose flesh heals instantly bear scars on his left eye...?" Fiorin asked himself.
"It was fun, lad. Farewell."
It was too late. Lightning from the Thunder Caller's hammer coursed through Fiorin's body, burning his insides mercilessly. With one last scream of pain, the heir to the Ebonmane throne went silent. His body went limp, and the Thunder Caller withdrew the hammer with burnt flesh upon it.
The deed was done, and now the mere mortal could no longer hinder the Thunder Caller from taking his prize. But, as he turned to the pyre, a shadow caught the corner of his eye. The fallen warrior was already upon his slayer. Though smoke continued to pour off of him, his flesh was mended. Though his internal organs were burned, there he was, charging head first yet again into battle. Before the surprised Thunder Caller could ready his hammer, Fiorin let loose a kick to the stomach so fierce that it launched the immortal backward... without his precious weapon.
Fiorin grabbed the old man by the throat with his left hand, and forced his right thumb through the Thunder Caller's left eye socket, scrambling anything past the eye patch. His foe screamed and writhed in pain as he tried to free himself, bleeding fatally through his eye socket. He withdrew his thumb, and reached to his father's flaming pyre, deciding to end the struggle once and for all. With a torch in hand, Fiorin violently stabbed the eye socket of his foe once more, this time with the burning oils of his father's ceremonial burial.
The screaming of the leader of the Thunder Callers tribe had finally ceased, and the torrential storm calmed...
Fiorin returned his father's sword to the burial pyre. Though the ship would soon sink from damage the Thunder Caller caused, Fefnir Halvar's journey to the afterlife was secured. As for the new king of the Ebonmane Clan... he had nothing left, and had not expected to survive the night. Whether he should let the waters carry him way, or if he should avenge the death of his clan, he knew not.
What purpose remained for him? All he was certain of, was that of all the hundreds of men he had slain since he was a boy... that was the first time he truly felt victorious. But why?
He looked toward his father's burial, and though nobody would see it... for the first time, Fiorin Halvar smiled. "So this it..." he looked to the sky, "...this is why men fight."
Death Wound
Fiorin has a runic brand on his flesh on the lower left half of his torso by his kidney. One would be unsure what to make of it unless they knew what the runic markings annotated: "hand of the gods" or "lightning."
