Liudolf Agerssen
Nord, Male, Single, Heterosexual
Physical appearance
His hair is the tone of melted butter, low and choppy up top and peppered in along his jaw and arms. He has soft, juniper eyes above a chipped smile, often aimed upward from his 5’4” stature. He’s missing a pinky and half a ring finger on his left hand, and all the tips from his index, middle, and ring on his right. Years of hard battle and discipline have left him a powerful physique and all the scars to show it, the most notable being a neat impression coiling about his throat with the rugged grain of a hangman’s rope.
Personality/Combat Preference
Liudolf is a dog of war, plain-spoken in nature and indelicate in touch. It’s a rare thing for him to mingle socially, and rarer still to make friends or keep anyone close for that matter. He finds the long road of battle to be a more comfortable ride and that his mind is clearer on the field, his thoughts unfettered by the nuances in social engagement. This is painfully obvious in his prowess for combat.
Being of ‘lower standing’, and bequeathed a massive pole-axe, Liudolf needs to engage his whole body to make the best of it. He’s confident in the vanguard and/or cavalry, where he can rain fire onto supporting units, shell-shock the front linemen, and create the biggest hole for an advancing force. His ability to maneuver his pole-axe in tandem with his fire is a frightening sight, a rapid ballet of blood and char.
That said, he’s not completely removed from his social potential, as his dry humor and illustrative story-telling seemed to have worked so far. Most stories and jokes he can tell were shared amongst soldiers and officers, so they’re not without their share of blood. He can be roughly charming, and he’s not unaware of his more “robust” features, though he’s not one to abuse such knowledge.
He carries the burden of his father's honor, sharing it with his men and friends, while holding dear the staunch words of his family line: Unconditional love for Skyrim, whilst safeguarding a brighter future for her lands and people. Though as the infection spreads and terrors of the night prey on the weak, he grows unsure of how to secure it through anything but blood and death.
Weapons
- Six-foot-six, walnut-grain bardiche pole-axe wrapped in deerskin for grip, originally his father’s. Currently, the butt of the shaft is gnawed and splintered.
- Liudolf’s comrades nicknamed it Griever’s Reach.
- A simple knife, its handle stained with blood.
Armour
Essentially the typical officer's garb with a couple twists. The top layer of scalemail guards his upper-half as separate sleeves for his arms and a tunic dropping to his upper thighs, crudely reshaped to act as barbs and spikes. Typical chainmail beneath that, rolling out in a thick two-piece set, reinforced at the joints with dry-boiled leather. Underneath, a three-piece of brigandine leather, covering vitals in the chest, abdomen, and back. A pair of knee-high Imperial boots, lined with fur for comfort, the emblem sanded off the metal.
Over the top, tattered and blood-spattered and draping to his knees, is an aegean-blue cloak bearing the Stormcloak insignia, adorned with his rank pin. Tacked on the fabric in neat little rows, in varying conditions, are the war-skirt tassels of Imperial bandits defeated in battle. One taken for each "leader" slain, they number nearly forty-eight.
Magik/Spells
Liudolf's apt fascination with the savage power of fire has become his trademark. Though he bears an immunity to his own fire, as his magika is whittled down, that immunity becomes more of a resistance. Between aggressively-developed spells and a favoring of practical weapons and attacks, he's left with a smaller but more potent pool of magika to draw from.
These spells and techniques will be revealed via RP.
Miscellaneous Gear
Two days worth of dried-rations, a stash of forty coin, a spare tunic with buckled pig-skin shoes, a nub of wax for his armor, and a tiny slab of whetstone.
Background
Before the Sickness came, Liudolf enjoyed a peaceful upbringing in Windhelm, with his sister Ljufa and his two brothers, Devan and Taelgar. His father, Weohtgar, served on the guard as both the head of the Agerssen clan and a loyalist to the Stormcloak succession, following the path of his own father. His mother, Dhaelvi, sympathized with the denizens of the Gray Quarter and made herself known as a local healer and wisewoman, sharing her alchemy and magick as discreetly as possible. When Ulfric gained a following and openly rebelled against Imperial rule, the family was all but prepared to join the fight and were led through two brutal, back-to-back wars.
When the fighting ended and an apparent peace settled, so did a deadly plague and night-dwelling hellspawn. Liudolf once jested dryly that the Empire had left them an “apocalypse“ during their retreat, a final parting gift from a bitter dynasty. He never wanted to be right.
It didn’t help that his siblings assignments rarely overlapped with his own, or that his parents separated after arguing that neither should get so close to the Sickness. His father remarried some time later and found solace in his new wife, but the news of Dhaelvi’s death sent him over the edge. He sought a bloody vengeance on the Imperial stragglers, and in his own blind rage and despair, was captured and executed by retreating Imperials.
In livid defiance of what had been taken, what could still be taken, Liudolf was overcome with a restless fury. He violently rose through command, proving himself to be a tenacious and competent leader, and soon held the title of Captain and a company of one-hundred sixty-six soldiers. Then he sought his vendetta, on the terms of no mercy, no where. When his father’s longhouse was ransacked and destroyed, he led a hunting party to find his little sister Ljufa and his stepmother. When his oldest brother Devan was killed in a skirmish, he took that same party and razed every Imperial bandit and nether-wolf he could get his hands on.
And he kept killing, kept moving his hunting pack, kept looking for Ljufa, kept his company on patrol, and kept leading his men straight through hell.
Until recently.
Two weeks ago, Liudolf cornered a sizeable bandit migration and engaged as it attempted to merge with another. The battle stretched over several hours, and victory was closely-won, but Liudolf’s forces came out on top. In the tiring aftermath and clean-up, they were ambushed by nether-wolves, ending in a gruesome last-stand where he just barely escaped with his life. Many believe the beasts had somehow orchestrated the attack, stalking until the fight was over and the men were at their most vulnerable; though the rumor isn’t getting much traction, and Stormcloak Command refuses to stoke that kind of paranoia. Even still, the notion that the beasts can think strategically is troubling.
With the ambush’s investigation closed and his remaining soldiers now garrisoned in The Rift, Liudolf rides for Rorikstead. To avenge his comrades and end this madness once and for all.
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