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Folke
Folke "Longbranch"
| Name | Folke |
|---|---|
| Status | Active |
| Occupation | Wayfarer, Wanderer and Man for Hire |
| Age | Late thirties by the looks of him |
| Race | Man |
|---|---|
| Residence | A roaming man |
| Kinship | - |
| Outward Appearance |
A tall traveler from the North, with a rough manner, a thick skin and laughter sometimes loud enough to wake the heavens.
With an oversized nose, and scarring upon his face, hard earned in battle and his wanderings, he is not considered attractive by most civilized people. In his hair are many braids, some left to form matted locks and most are adorned with a wooden bead of some design or another. Though his clothes were once of a fine and sturdy make, they are now diminished and battered by travel.
His voice is befitting of a large man, though quiet when not poking fun, or telling a tall tale, some might consider it deep and lingering. He would claim his large build comes from a well earned diet, though he is mostly big boned and from Lossoth stock.
A wayfarer through and through, he knows much about living in the wilds, in the cold places and on the road. He can be found making shelter from whatever he can find, and a meal from whatever he can catch, or forage, though he uses the term lightly.
"Northman" by Gladaewen of Laurelin Archives, with artist's permission, and this player's thanks. |
|---|
Background
Sat under the stars, among a small palisade-walled settlement, there they gathered around a great fire, large and furious. Smoke escaped the burning embers and logs of dried pine and birch, like a wraith it swept the circle of gathered people, who were hardy, and rough in appearance with large beards and robes made for a winter's night, for it was winter, and the stick and leaf rooves were covered, white with snow. An elderly man, his beard much larger, and longer, and more grey than the other's emerged from his home, wood and bone charms clacked and clanked as he brushed past them, and again as his son followed, short in beard, but his face covered in scars, and an eye missing, in the fire's light, he appeared like a monster. He delivered his news, in the fashion of his father the storyteller, who told them a story of his deeds, and then he took the drum from his father, and sang, beating the drum in time with his words.
"Farewell you all, who dwell in the eaves,
Farewell you, northern sky,
For yonder south, many paths lead,
And I might find my way.
I have filled my time, beneath those boughs,
Now I must follow my feet,
Might I be remembered for my lesser deeds?
Might I be forgotten when night breaks its dark?
Remember me, as the wanderer of wood and hill,
Remember me, broad and tall,
And may you think of me when morning bird makes its call,
May you think of my fire in the hills.
Remember my deeds when I am long gone,
There are many more yet to come,
For in the south, I will wander long,
The greatest stories are yet to come."
| Friends | |
|---|---|
| Relatives | All dwell in the north, unless a stray cousin or two have also found their way south |
| Rivals/Enemies | Wanderer's have few rivals, but may remember many enemies |
| Loves | A good joke by the fire, the carving of wood, mead at the end of a hard day and a story told well |
|---|---|
| Hates | A dull blade, an empty belly, drinking alone - although it does still happen, often |
| Motivation | "Let us find us the best story." |
| Quotes | "What is better than fresh air? It is free, and you can never have your fill of it." |
Folke's Adventures
| Afternoon Tea | 10 years 9 months ago |
| All In Good Time | 10 years 9 months ago |
| Come All To See! | 10 years 9 months ago |
| Whittling In Bree | 10 years 9 months ago |
| Woodsman At Work | 10 years 9 months ago |
