#nomad.intro

matilda de angelis, ciswoman, she / her, 27 — dear all nations, IDUNNA SVENSDÓTTIR has crossed the city borders to edinburgh to the sound of SWAN UPON LEDA by HOZIER. the PRINCESS of SWEDEN is known to be IN FAVOR OF making peace. SHE reminds me of AN EMPTY’S BIRD NEST INHABITING BROKEN WINGS AND DREAMS HALF FORGOTTEN. however did you know that SHE DOESN’T BELIEVE HER BROTHER IS FIT TO RULE?

BASICS.

name: idunna svensdóttir

age: twenty seven

birthdate: february 14th

titles: princess of sweden

pronouns: she / her

sexuality: heterosexual , heteroromantic

family: jian svensson ( brother ) , dorothea hakkansdóttir ( sister in law ) , prince vicktor svensson ( brother ) , prince of sweden ( brother ) , princess of sweden ( sister ), queen mother ( mother )

BIOGRAPHY.

you were not born a princess. in fact, some now would even question if you were born a dane, despite the noble blood that ran through your veins from both sides of the family and the title that your brother took for you, gifted you.

your biological mother was the sister of the mother you’ve known all your life. your biological father was a jarl, his lands nestled in the mountains of sweden. he was feared, respected. you can only imagine the disappointment when you came out as a sickly little thing, your cries coming three minutes after you were born.

your father was never an involved man. you were a disappointment, from your sickly nature to the sex that you had been cursed with. you were a bargaining chip, a vessel for alliances that your father could make. he still wished for a boy, though. not enough praying could make his first child a male.

so your mother and father tried again. your mother was a woman prone to sickness, quite like you, so it wasn’t surprising when the babe tried to enter the world a month too soon. your mother was stricken with an infection, and two months after the birth of the boy your father so wanted, she was taken by hel. you were two years old.

your father seemed to spiral when your younger brother passed away. not when his wife of three years died, but when the son he had waited so long to have left him. you were sent to live with your aunt and uncle. you never hear from your father again.

your name changes from hansdóttir to svensdóttir after two years of no contact from your father. you didn’t necessarily notice the change, nor did you ask about your father. your new father, sven, had dreams of grandeur, one’s you did not pay attention to once upon a time, or until it affected your eldest brother.

biography :

TW: mentions abuse & parental death

you  are  never  the  picture  of  a  proper  princess  .  you  look  the  part  ,  of  course  ,  that  much  is  very  clear  .  with  fiery  red  hair  and  delicate  features  ,  you  are  easily  recognizable  as  a  princess  of  the  braveheart  country  .  

you  succeed  two  older  brothers  ,  both  already  have  very  clear  places  in  this  world  :  lachlan  is  the  oldest  ,  the  heir  .  then  ,  there’s  your second oldest brother  ,  a  ‘  plan  b  ’  if  something  were  to  happen  to  lachlan  .  and  then  ,  there  is  you  .  for  three  years  ,  you  are  the  youngest  .  you  were  too  young  to  remember  that  .  finally  ,  there  is  william  ,  the  very  image  of  the  baby  of  a  family  .  you  are  not  the  oldest  ,  not  the  youngest  .  you  are  not  the  most  well  behaved  or  the  most  rebellious  .  you  are  not  the  smartest  or  the  most  charming  .  the  only  thing  you  are  extraordinary  at  is  being  extra  ordinary  .  you  are  wedged  in  the  middle  of  your  family  ,  in  the  middle  of  everything  .  

and  for  a  while  ,  this  is  a  good  thing  .  you  can  slip  through  the  cracks  ,  your  father  has  less  of  an  iron  grip  on  you  ,  and  you  can  follow  your  mother  around  as  you  please  .  your  mother  is  your  favorite  person  in  the  entire  world  .  she  is  singularly  kind  ,  beautiful  ,  and  opinionated  .  other  women  aren’t  like  that  .  she  is  your  biggest  inspiration  in  this  life  ,  and  if  you  were  ever  a  queen  ,  you  would  want  to  be  just  like  her  .  

(  one  night  ,  when  you  are  around  six  ,  she  holds  your  face  in  her  hands  ,  tears  on  your  cheeks  ,  you’ve  never  felt  this  sad  before  –  scolded  by  your  father  for  tearing  up  your  skirts  &  trying  to  play  with  your  brothers  .  stupid  girl  ,  he  had  called  you  .  over  &  over  &  over  again  ,  stupid  girl  ,  stupid  girl  ,  stupid  girl  .  there’s  only  one  way  you  can  think  to  describe  this  feeling  to  her  :  “  mama  ,  it  hurts  everywhere  “  she  gives  you  a  soft  smile  ,  like  there  is  so  much  she  wants  to  tell  you  about  your  father  ,  and  wipes  a  bundle  of  fresh  tears  away  with  her  thumb  “  you  have  done  nothing  wrong  my  angel  .  nothing  at  all  .    ”  if  your  father  is  a  dark  storm  cloud  ,  your  mother  is  a  warm  light  .  you  think,  if  your  mother  were  in  charge,  things  would  be  much  better  .  )

you’ve  never  had  any  desire  to  be  queen  ,  no  desire  for  power  ,  only  a  desire  for  good  .  to  be  a  good  person  ,  be  a  good  princess  ,  be  a  good  daughter  .  you  place  the  rebellion  in  a  box  and  only  take  it  out  when  it’s  time  to  be  someone  else  .  the  very  act  of  being  someone  else  is  an  act  of  rebellion  ,  however  ,  and  in  your  heart  you  know  you  shouldn’t  be  sneaking  out  .  that  you  shouldn’t  want  to  experience  everything  you  have  .  but  it’s  fun  ,  isn’t  it  ?  it’s  so  fun  being  free  .

it  starts  when  you  are  sixteen  ,  and  it’s  just  a  quick  trip  into  town  .  for  just  one  day  ,  you  want  to  be  normal  .  one  day  turns  into  another  &  another  &  another  &  it  repeats  itself  until  one  night  ,  your  mother  finds  you  on  your  way  back  in  .  she  doesn’t  say  anything  .  nods  her  head  ,  and  closes  your  door  .  you  know  she  will  not  be  upset  ,  you  know  she  will  not  tell  your  father  .  

your  mother  leaves  you  a  letter  ,  before  she  goes  .  you  don’t  know  if  she  left  your  siblings  one  ,  you  don’t  ask  .  you  keep  yours  close  to  your  chest  ,  it’s  a  secret  between  the  two  of  you  .  she  tells  you  to  be  kind  ,  be  loving  ,  be  trusting  .  trust  yourself  ,  she  writes  ,  trust  yourself  above  anyone  else  .  you  know  what  is  best  ,  dear  girl  .  she  finishes  the  letter,  i  love  you,  fly  free.  

your  father  seals  your  fate  with  a  sip  of  viking  ale  and  a  smile  .  were  you  really  so  insignificant  to  him  ?  were  you  really  so  replaceable  ?  so  inconsequential  that  he  could  ship  you  to  a  different  country  ,  only  to  see  you  when  you’re  allowed  to  come  back  ?  is  it  really  that  easy  ?

you  feel  something  for  your  future  husband  ,  among  those  feelings  are  :  contempt  ,  anger  ,  resentment  .  you’ve  never  felt  this  kind  of  vexation  before  ,  it  fills  you  from  the  top  down  .  you  find  him  singularly  brutish  &  cruel  .  in  all  your  years  dreaming  of  prince  charming  ,  you  had  never  pictured  him  a  viking  warrior  ,  a  killer  .

your  engagement  is  the  nail  in  the  coffin  --  it  means  your  mother  is  truly  gone  .  you  can  sense  that  your  brothers  are  plotting  .  you  don’t  ask  questions  .  you’ve  never  wanted  to  run  away  more  .

stats:

age: 34 pronouns: she/her birthday: september 9 alignment: neutral good sexuality: pansexual connections: parents (deceased), cyrus (husband deceased), elvy (daughter deceased), princess albia phokas (moxi) , unnamed noble lady from the byzantine empire (wanted), unnamed royal servant from byzantine empire (wanted), roma friends and siblings she grew up with (wanted)

bio:

you were born into a loving Roma family and community. You all looked out for each other as you moved around, whether the people who lived in the towns were kind to you or not. Your childhood wasn’t without hardship. You lost your father when you were only a child and your community often found themselves having to flee in the night from the outskirts of towns that did not accept you and your culture. You moved around more times than you could count when you were a girl, but your family always encouraged you to treat anyone outside of the community with the same friendliness you treated your friends and family with. You started training with your mother as a healer when you were only a girl of ten. Though those outside your community were sometimes wary and standoffish towards all of you, they tended to be a bit more open when they sought healing from your family. The early years of your training were spent gathering herbs, boiling water or tisanes, and cleaning materials. As you got older, you became more involved. Cleaning wounds, applying salves and poultices, helping with births, deaths, and all manner of injuries in between. Some people called it magic, but you knew well enough that it was far more practical than that. Soon enough you were trained enough to practice on your own and bring the younger children from the village to train with your on less advanced cases. In your late teens you married a man from your community, Cyrus. You continued your work as a healer, slowly having to consult your mother less and less. In time you had your own daughter that you named Elvy. You were happy and content, even if they moved frequently. As the years passed, your mother began to fall ill. You discussed with your husband and community elders, and it was decided that your mother would fare better without traveling.

Saving the money and supplies you and your husband gathered from working, your little family approached one of the lords of a town that had been more accepting than others. You asked for a small area of land to build a home and small farm. The lord, a man called Adelmar, agreed so long as you paid him a portion of their profits and he maintained control over what was grown on the land. Your family built a small hovel against a hill with enough room for your family and your mother. It was new to all of you, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Slowly, you got used to working as a healer in the nearby village when you weren’t working around your own home and tending to your mother and daughter.   However, things began to change in the winter. More people sought you out for help as they were getting sick. You did your best to carry the load of patients by yourself, but you could hardly help or cure all of them. Still, you persevered. It was that same winter that brought a new heartache for you and Elvy. A slip on a patch of ice led to Cyrus to having a serious injury. Try as you might, you couldn’t heal him and by Springtime he had passed. With no husband, brother, or father to claim the land or to help your work it, you weren’t sure how your family would survive. You begged Lord Adelmar to let you stay and said you would pay him all you could. The callous lord would only agree if there was something in it for him. In your grief, you weren’t sure what he meant and when he explained, you did something rash. In your anger and your anguish, you spit words at him in your own language – the one you spoke with your mother and your family – a language Adelmar did not know. The avaricious lord slammed the door in your face.  You returned to your home, desperately trying to think of what to do next. Over the next few days, you graciously took on anyone looking for healing with the hopes of scraping together enough money to find somewhere you and your family could go. You were out on a patient’s call one evening when you heard the clamor out in the streets. As soon as you could leave your patient you took a shortcut back to your home, cutting through the woods. It was all aglow with torchlight when you arrived. The small wooden door was open, and it was lit up inside. There were screams from within and you tried – you tried with all your might - to push your way through the crowd and into your home. Into the place where your daughter was screaming inside. When you made it to the doorway the screaming had already stopped. What was left of your family was lying on the dirt floor before you, unmoving. The pieces fell into place like a horrid fever dream in front of you. Adelmar standing in your home. Elvy, bloody on the floor. Your mother lying motionless by the hearth. There was screaming again, and you would only realize later it was your own. “Drag the witch out,” you heard someone say. It sounded so far away. Then you were being pulled away, your knees scraping through the dirt.

Over the next few days that you spent locked in a room, you deduced that Adelmar thought you cursed him that night your husband died. He convinced the others in the town that you were the causes of their loved ones’ illnesses and injuries. Told them you killed your husband. He told them your mother must’ve done the same and that your daughter, your Elvy, would do the same when she was older. So, they took them from her. The only reason you weren’t lying with them was because you had been healing someone else. You weren’t sure how many days passed in that room. You weren’t even sure what they planned to do with her. Burning, hanging – there were so many ways could choose from. It was only when a familiar face brought your food that things changed. One of your previous patients, a young woman you had treated what felt like centuries ago. She quietly told you that she would be back at nightfall and that you should be ready. You followed her instructions without arguing and the woman led your away as everyone slept. The young woman led you to the forest on the edge of town and gave you a small bit of bread. You were still in a daze but took the charity. You wandered south for days. Barely eating after the bread was gone except when you found berries or seeds that you could identify and drinking only from clear streams. After days and days – maybe even weeks, you weren’t sure – you stumbled across a small house, chimney smoking, set just outside of another town. It was there you crumbled and let the darkness takeover.

When you awoke, you were in a bed in a room you didn’t recognize. An older woman was taking care of you. You tried to sit up but received quick tutting from the woman. Your caretaker began speaking to you, but it wasn’t a language you spoke – Latin, maybe. Instinctively, you shook your head and spoke in your own language – the one you hadn’t spoken since you last saw your family. The woman nodded knowingly, as if she should have guessed. When the old woman spoke your native language back to you, tears welled in your eyes. As the woman tended to your wounds and helped your recover, you explained your story. It didn’t feel real and somehow it also felt like the most grave and tangible thing anyone had ever experienced. The other woman had no words to comfort you but combed the hair away from the tears that streamed down your face. It took you months to recover from your time barely eating in the wilderness. You had new scars littering your knees and legs from where briars and vines had cut into your skin. But you had a way forward. The old woman who saved you, who you now knew was called Esmeralda, was once a famed midwife and healer. Esmeralda still helped with deliveries on occasion, but her vision and hearing were slowly leaving her. With your help and a bit of training in midwifery and Latin, the pair of you would be able to help anyone expecting in the surrounding area. You spent almost three years working around the nearby villages, helping with pregnancies and ailments when you were approached by a well-dressed man on a horse.

FULL NAME . Kázmér Halasz NICKNAME(S) . Kaz, Casimir, Kazimierz AGE . 30 DATE OF BIRTH . NATIONALITY . Hungarian GENDER . cis man PRONOUNS . he/him ORIENTATIONS . bisexual RELIGION . roman catholic OCCUPATION(S) . crown prince of hungary LANGUAGES SPOKEN . Hungarian, Latin, English, Croatian BIO .

You are not raised for kingship, that honour has always belonged to your elder brother. Any leadership you are taught is that of an army rather than a country. Your childhood is filled with your younger siblings, the nursery filling throughout the years. By the time you are grown you are second of five. 

From childhood you have been taught that it shall forever be your duty to watch your brother’s back- he will be king, you will forever stand behind him. Guards will come and go, advisors will retire, but blood and brotherhood shall last both your lifetimes. You are taught to wield a sword, to hold a shield. 

The time comes when you are a man grown yet barely out of boyhood- sent off to fight as so many younger sons are. Heir to nothing, there is a younger brother to replace you in the line of succession if you were to fall. You say goodbye to your siblings, scared it might be the last time you see them.

War is brutal and bloody but unlike many of your men you return home. You walk the halls of your childhood- nothing has changed yet everything has changed. Your siblings grow, your elder brother weds, your father dies, your brother becomes king. You still feel like the same man, standing on the front stoop, staring at your childhood home.

You were never meant to be the crown prince. That has always been your brother. Marius, forever the barrier between you and the throne. Now nothing stands between it and you- except for your young niece, much too little for any crown.

stats.

full name : adam ivar gustafsson age : twenty seven birthday : july 20th nationality : swedish gender / pronouns : cis man, he / him sexual orientation : pansexual occupation : servant for the swedish royal family languages spoken : swedish, english, basic danish

misc.

scars : small bright spots on his knees from landing on gravel while falling off a horse as a child, one faint white line on the knuckle of his left thumb from carving wood, an unevenness to his nose after having it broken and set back into place sleeping habits : 6 - 7 hours, preferably with nathaniel. mumbles in his sleep emotional stability : easily broken down, too stubborn to admit it's a problem alcohol use : regular zodiac sign : cancer sun, taurus moon, leo rising alignment : neutral good positive traits : loyal, honest, playful when it's allowed negative traits : stubborn, cynical, skittish habits : bounces his leg when sitting, picks at his nails, sometimes hums when he's working hobbies : reading and writing ( poorly ) fears : abandonment, thunder and lightning, the dark favourite weather : post-rain sunshine favourite colour : lilac favourite food : new potatoes and salmon favourite beverage : tea and wine favourite animal : dogs tracklist : achilles come down ( gang of youths ), marjorie ( taylor swift ), all i've ever known ( hadestown ), that funny feeling ( phoebe bridgers version ), i can see you ( taylor swift )

biography.

tw: death and murder

you were born to not be seen. you’re raised to not take up space. you blend into the surrounding scenery until you are needed for something, and just as fast as the snap of fingers or the wave of a hand asked you for help, you disappear into the background again once the task is complete. it's drilled into you that you must learn your place, and you do it very well.

you often find yourself helping your father with his job as a servant for the swedish royals when you’re able. you learn how to work a broom, how to best care for an apple tree, how to carry several pints at once without spilling a drop. you’re endearing, you’re sweet, your cheeks are pinched,  you’re just like your father  and you take much pride in it. you know nothing of what the world has in store for you. you’re curious about your surroundings. your older sister teaches you how to ride a horse, and together you sneak off when everybody else is asleep for midnight adventures filled with made up stories of bravery and happily ever afters while you imagine such lives for yourselves. you pick bouquets of dandelions and gift them to your mother who keeps it a secret from you that they are weeds. you’re taught how to skip rocks, but instead of throwing them you keep them in a keepsake box under your bed. you find yourself out in the courtyard: the moon has slivered down to a shard and you didn’t know of any constellations so you made up your own and named them after the people who love you.

you’re happy. you’re amongst friends. the cooks at the castle offer you apple slices to keep you around, always excited about your presence and the nonsense stories of made up bravery you tell. you keep them company as you grow up in front of their eyes. they still see you as a chid, their chid, and the taste of apples remind you of love.

you fall in love several times a week. not being caught becomes one of your favourite games. hushed laughter and unbuttoned shirts is a regular occurrence. every melody in the world belongs to you.

then, things change.

your mother becomes sick, and soon thereafter she passes. your older sister is quick to join her. you and your father alike are struck with insurmountable grief. for you, it means you stop getting out of bed in the mornings. for him, it means he can no longer perform as well in regards to his work as he used to. the swedish king takes notice, and it is dealt with swiftly. your father joins your mother and your sister, and you are left to fill his shoes. you try to wish yourself dead in hopes of seeing your family again but it does not work.

you stay alive, you keep your two younger siblings fed. your hands shake, but only when no one is watching. you do not have the time to grieve. you occupy yourself with polishing, pouring, boiling tealeaves and doing as you’re told. at night you drink yourself warm. flowers still bloom, stars still sparkle, and you are blind to all of it. you find yourself curling on your bed as you had once been cradled by your parents.

when the king is murdered by his very own advisor, you do not say a word. you do not try to prevent it, you do not run for help. you lock the door and you avert your eyes, but you cannot do the same with your ears. your reward is to keep your position, and so, you're brought along to scotland. you try and use the change of scenery as a fresh start. during the day you do your best to shine a decent enough light on sweden, and at night you collapse into the beds of strangers to keep your mind from drifting towards the past you're trying to forget.

you fall into the arms of a woman with as many coils as a snake and in return she lands you a broken nose and a belief that this is how you ought to be treated. it is only with the help of a friend that you manage to release yourself from her honey coated claws. out of her arms, you fall into his - but this is different. his hands do not pull you in to push you away once he grows bored and finds something more interesting, and before you even know what's happening you've fallen in love with your best friend.

relationships.

name: Viktor Lucas Svensson

age: 31

birthday: January 2nd

gender: Cis Male

pronouns: He/Him

royal status: Prince of Sweden

sexuality: Bisexual

Viktor's got the typical personality of a crown prince. He wants to do good for the world, showcase his skills, and ensure his country is safe and happy. Everything is seen through rose colored glasses in regards to actual country strategies. He wants what's good for Sweden. Growing up, he strongly believed that his brother was that exact fact. But the more and more he learned being the crown prince, the more and more he wasn't sure. This resulted in a massive problem. His brother's policies simply weren't in line with Viktor's own beliefs. A few others members tried to stage a coup, and the prince helped. He tried to speak to his brother about it and it resulted in Viktor spending a day in prison. Now, he wants to overthrow his brother. But he won’t let his brother know this. In fact, right after that day, he apologized profusely and has been the perfect prince ever since.

BASICS.

full name: tyr erik valdemar magnussen

nicknames: n/a

age: 24 years old

gender: cis male

pronouns: he/they

orientation: gay

family: magnus hagensen (father, deceased), anneliese ivarsdatter (mother deceased), hagen magnussen (brother, deceased), ivar magnussen (brother), [open] magnussen (brother), clara magnusdatter (sister, deceased), dagmar bjørndatter (sister in law), anneliese hagendatter (niece)

religion: norse pagan

language(s): danish, swedish, polish, russian, english 

status: single

APPEARANCE.

hair color: brown

hair length/style: shoulder length, usually pulled back

eye color: brown

height: 6' (183cm)

dominant hand: right

distinguishing marks: several small scars littered across hands, chest, arms, and chin/jaw ; two especially prominent scars on the left side of the face, one jagged from the temple to the middle of the top lip that runs across where an eye was & one that extends from the bridge of the nose down ; several thin scars on lips, right eyebrow, and left cheek

BIO.

you’re born into war, but not the sort armor will save you from. the youngest of your brood by quite some years, your eldest brother, the future king, is thirteen years your senior. doting and protection would abound, but not from your parents. it’s your brothers who look after you and your sister, hagen the most so. you spend early childhood as his shadow, knowing better than to stray too far from your big brother’s protective watch. straying too far means dealing with him. your father is not a kind man raising his children. your father is a general raising soldiers without a war to send them off to. you’re four when he puts a practice sword in your hand, and barely eight when you’re handed a real one. you never take to it like your brothers do. the sword feels unwieldy and awkward in your hands. hand to hand combat isn’t much better. your father tells you you hit like a woman. it’s not that you can’t fight. it’s that the ways you want to train –daggers, a bow, maybe? not to mention your poison knowledge is extensive– do not align with your father’s vision for you. come to think of it, little about you aligns with what he wants. 

you’re a child when talks of betrothal reach your ears. in your father’s opinion, you’re not much use for your strength, but you can still be useful in alliances. you and a young girl from another clan are promised to each other, and every time a visit is made in either direction you’re all but shoved together, like the forced socialization will help. you don’t like her. it isn’t necessarily anything she says or does or how she acts, you just. you don’t like her. something is off. you don’t have the vocabulary for it, yet, but. everyone tells you she’s beautiful and you’re going to be so lucky and they bring up children. you hate it. it feels wrong. you don’t voice any of this, though. you've been nothing but a disappointment your entire life. you can't fail at this, too. this betrothal will break, later, along with a few other constants from your life. 

and this is how your life proceeds. training, studying, learning when to duck and when to just let him hit you. you learn not to cry. you learn when to just endure the shouting and when you can clamp your hands over your ears to try and block it out. when you’re 12 you take a blade to the face, at your father’s hand. he misses your eye, just barely. the scar is pale now, almost unnoticeable if you just glance. it’s your punishment, he asserts, for losing your focus in training. go stop the bleeding and come back. and so it goes. for years. you learn to take a hit, get back up, get hit again. you're 16 when a guard is instructed to swing on you, and does not concede you the mercy of missing. now, your father asserts, you can look as useless as you are. this will cost you an eye, an injury that spells the end of any hope you might be good enough for him. he's already written you off. there is no comfort to be found with this brute. you've long given up on the idea he's even trying to toughen you up. you're not a hope, you're an example. one thing your father should have anticipated, however, is that you can only kick a dog so many times before it bites. you’re a powder keg waiting for that one, good spark. once you get it, you’re going to blow. 

that spark does come. the two of you had been left alone, and– well, really, the full details are a blur. he was in your face, you’d upset him, somehow. he was yelling, he grabbed you, you wrenched your arm away, tried to shove him away from you, panic overtaking logic. the look in his eyes as he advanced forward is the last clear memory you have. you don’t remember picking up the rock. you don’t remember hitting him. he’s on the ground. you hit him. you hit him. you hit him. you drop the rock and you just….stare at him. he looks…pathetic. he’s still alive. you can see him gasping for air, his eyes going unfocused, and he just lays there. is he dying? oh gods, what have you done? you don’t move. you don’t help him. you stand there, and you freeze. if you get help now, will he survive? but if he survives, you’ll be executed for what you’ve done. your brother can protect you from much of his wrath, but not this. but can you really stand here and wait for him to die? you don’t know. 

it feels like ages later you make your choice. you have to find hagen. even if he cannot protect you, you need him. you're hysterical when you reach him, and he hardly understands what you try to tell him. there’s been an accident. it was an accident. an accident. help is too late. you're both horrifically aware of the seriousness of the situation. you've prided yourself on learning to be quick, to plan for everything. such a skill escapes you now. hagen, though. his plan is simple. it's quick work, and the story quicker still. clearly, magnus had overindulged, as he was known to do, and in his staggering, lost his balance and bashed his head heavily, right on this corner here. what a pity. clearly you’d tried to help. you’ve grown up around most of these people. the idea you could ever have something to do with it, well. it feels preposterous, even if the circumstances are a little strange. the king’s death is ruled a freak accident, and life goes on. 

nightmares plague you. when you close your eyes you swear you see his staring back at you, glassy and unseeing. you swear you can hear him screaming for you. it’s horrific. you barely sleep. you’re prone to nodding off at meals and at meetings and even sitting to watch the others train. you’re easily distracted, often staring off into space, oblivious to what happens around you. you know people are concerned. but what can you do? hagen takes your father's place, and he and dagmar settle into their new roles. you and hagen never breathe a word of what really happened. you'd almost convince yourself of your own lie if you didn't still see the blood on your hands some nights. you do what you can to ignore the emotions it stirs up, falling into beds it would be best for you to avoid, overindulging yourself in a marked uptick. doing anything you still can to keep yourself busy. you think you manage it well, until. hagen is killed, and a third king is on the throne in your lifetime now. losing hagen sends you on a spiral. grief is not an emotion you understand well, having been so young when you lost your mother, guilt ruling over any grief for your father. this, though? this is a pain you haven't yet known.

[        statistics        ]        ⸻

full  name  :    oskar asulf

nicknames  :    os

age  :  29   

gender  +  pronouns  :    male  he/him  

orientation  :    heterosexual

[        appearance        ]        ⸻

height  :    6'0

hair    colour  :    brown

eye    colour  :    deep blue

dominant    hand  :    left

distinguishing    scars  :    small  scar  underneath  his  left  eye, many deep scars that run along his left leg from when they had to cut the arrows from his leg.

brown usually in some sort of braid. the only time it's not is when he is getting ready for bed. since getting injured now has a slight limp to his walk, he refuses to a cane. wears a scorn look on his face for the majority of time. tattoos decorate his body, one on each shoulder.

[        background        +        family        ]        ⸻

birthdate:  january  9th

rank  :  strategist, viking

mother  :    astrid asulf (deceaed)  

father  :    ubbe asulf  (deceased)

sibling(s)  :  n/a  

[        introduction        ]        ⸻

amidst  a  frigid  blizzard,  you  made  your  grand  entrance  into  this  world,  unleashing  chorus  of  cries  that  echoed  through  the  night.  your  arrival  was  not  without  its  challenges,  for  it  came  at  a  great  cost  -  the  life  of  you  dear  mother.  your  father,  once  a  loving  man,  became  distant  and  cold.  he  was  present  only  at  meal  times,  until  you  grew  tall  and  strong  enough  to  wield  a  weapon.  

warriors  ran  in  your  blood,  a  legacy  passed  down  from  your  father's  father's  father.  he  was  legend,  or  so  the  stories  went.  and  your  father  was  determined  to  carry  on  that  legacy  through  you.  he  trained  you  relentlessly,  never  once  praising  you  unless  you  were  perfect.  but  perfection  was  an  impossible  standard  in  his  eyes.  

when  your  father  fell  ill  and  passed  away  on  your  nineteenth  birthday,  you  were  left  to  fend  for  yourself.  you  joined  the  halven  madsen  clan  in  their  raids  on  england,  ,  not  for  the  sake  of  land  ownership,  but  for  the  thrill  of  battle.  fighting  was  all  you  knew,  thanks  to  your  father,  and  thanks  to  him,  you  were  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with.  

but  you  were  not  just  a  fearsome  warrior  on  the  field.  you  were  a  clever  one  too.  when  a  few  sharp  arrows  found  their  way  into  your  leg,  your  career  as  a  soldier  shifted,  you  became  a  strategist,  or  perhaps  you  were  already  one,  planning  not  just  the  next  five  moves  but  the  next  twenty.  though  you  now  walk  with  a  limp,  and  cannot  participate  in  battles  as  much,  you  are  far  from  an  easy  target.  

you  were  raised  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  warrior  and  a  warrior  you  shall  die  

[        hooks        ]        ⸻

it's been just bit over 7 months since his injury. while normally a grumpy person, his leg sometimes throbs  in excruciating pain making him in an even worst mood.

has always been one to outsmart his opponent. yes, brute force works just as well, but seeing the look of disbelief of being outdid on enemies brings a smile to his face.

is aware of the amount of hate he has gained over the years, and does not care.  

is only soft toward animals and very, and i mean very, few people. would rather be alone.