Skaard

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Skaard is one of the Lords of Kylia, and serves as the current ruler of Kylia. He currently resides in Castle Ferrumguard. Previously, he served as Kylia's general, and lived in the barbarian camp south of Castle Ferrumguard.

## Description

### Appearance

Skaard is a Goliath, and takes after their traits. Skin the color of ash, blank white eyes, and tattoos covering his body and head. He has a beard which reaches his chest. He is extremely tall, even for a goliath, standing at 8'5. He is very muscular.

On his left forarm, there is a tattoo of a giant snake, which was placed there by the elders of his tribe to show him whether or not his was ready to wield the Jormungandr. It was previously blue, which meant that he wasn't ready, but once he saved his tribe from Captain Xatz and his crew, it turned gold, showing him that he was ready.

### Equipment

Skaard does not wear armor, as it gets in the way of his reckless and aggressive fighting style. Instead, he wears furs purchased in Imbay, as his previous tribal furs were melted in a behir’s stomach. He wields Jormungandr, the blade of his peoples, which grants him the powers of the storm. He also bears the Ring of Seven Laws, a ring studded with seven adamantine stones taken from the Doom Prophet, which limits the effectiveness of grievous blows against him and party members nearby. Also, upon becoming the ruler of Kylia, he inherited the Crown of Ferrumguard, fashioning it into more of a helmet rather than its previous crown shape

Previously, he wielded a magical glaive taken from the Factum Factorum, and a Dragonslaying greatsword seized from Aayla.

### Personality

Skaard is known, in most situations, to be rather stoic and quiet. He speaks only when he has something of importance to say, but he spends most of his time listening.

However, he has shown that during peaceful times, or when he is with his friends, he lets loose and is a bit more apporachable.

## Biography

**Skaard's Backstory, as written by Kale32301:**

Part 1:

The wind came howling down the mountainside of Geshum Veliell as the longboats were drawn out from their covers in the early sunrise. Under normal circumstances, this would be no bother. But the wind from the mountainside meant only one thing: storms. Storms were quite normal in the Sea of Thunder; with their dangerous, yet beautiful waves crashing up against the shoreline, just barely making it up to the boats parked in their wake. Chief Irock once told the Tribe, “Those who fear the storm fear the turmoil in their own souls. If you can brave the storm, nothing can bring you to your knees.” Only for the Stormmenders, any wave could be their last. All it took was a simple miscalculation, and you were gone. There was no inner storm which they feared, just the ones that could kill them.

Skarde contemplated all of this as he came upon the shoreline, tools in one hand, the other hand dragging a mast he had preparing the night before behind by a rope he felled earlier that morning. It was only his second time out on the waters. The first time, the whale they were hunting proved to be far bigger than any they had seen in centuries. Skarde swore its gaping maw could have swallowed an entire longboat in one gulp. He could remember the scene quite clearly. Waves crashing, Hunters yelling, and one massive whale fighting desperately to stay alive.

When hunting in the sea, there was no greater a prize than a whale. Its meat, if kept well, could feed four families for several moons. Its soft, yet warm hide could be made into clothing to protect the Tribe from the harsh nights which they endured every sunset. Nonetheless, such a prize was the most threatening prey any Goliath could come across. Not necessarily because of the whale itself, but because of the circumstances. Whales, throughout the centuries of traveling south, and north again, only to be hunted by the Goliath Tribes of Geshum Veliell, had learned to only travel while a storm was raging about. However, that didn’t stop the Tribe Thordunn. Not by a longshot.

The night had been violent in the wind, and the waves. The storm had nearly brought every ship down to the deep. However, the Stormmenders had been able to stop that from happening. It is unfortunate, but fitting that the most important job on the seas happened to be the most dangerous. Longboats were strong, but like other tools, they had to be mended. Waves in the Sea of Thunder were dangerous, if the side of a longboat took too many crashes, there is every possibility that it could be damaged. And if it’s damaged, every Hunter aboard the ship could be doomed to die on the bottom of the sea.

This is why Stormmenders are always brought along. A highly skilled craftsman, who is able to work under the most immense pressures. However, it is extremely difficult to become one. One must have trained their whole life to become one. In most cases, such as Skarde’s, such a job was hereditary. His father, Fjorn was one, as was his father, and his grandfather, and so on. It took a great deal of strength, and discipline to repair ships in such dangerous situations.

Stormmenders are tasked with repairing ships while hunting at sea. There are usually about five longboats which go out, but since not all Stormmenders can be put in one mission for safeties sake, usually two or three went out with them. This meant that the Stormmenders needed to travel between ships to mend them while the Hunters were taking down their prey. Of course, they did this by jumping from boat to boat. Of course, they were tethered by ropes to their harnesses to avoid unnecessary complications, but nonetheless, it was dangerous work. Any wrong step could be your last.

Skarde unloaded his tools next to his stationed longboat and began to examine the damage. Around him, other Goliaths were finishing their hours-long travel between the Tribe and the Shoreline, making their way to their boats, or sharpening their weapons and tools. They made their way to their assignments, talking, eating, laughing with one another. Most left Skarde alone, save for an occasional “Goodmorning,” or “Good luck today, brother.” There is an old belief that it is taboo to distract a Stormmender from their work before a hunt. Skarde’s father always called it bullocks but never said why.

The longboat didn’t have any noticeable damage on the sides, thankfully. However, as Skarde climbed atop the deck, he noticed a horrible crack in the mast. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as he lifted the mast aboard. Working with masts was always a bother. Installing them was difficult, and removing them was even harder. But Skarde managed. Most wouldn’t be able to do this without assistance, but Skarde was blessed with a bit of extra strength that most Goliaths could not use. Preparing to detach the broken mast from the longboat, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Careful son. Wouldn’t want that thing crashing down on your dear Hunters before we even get started eh?” Skarde’s father stepped aboard the ship.

Letting go of the broken mast, he grumbled, “I would be able to do it just fine without interruption, father.”

“Thought I taught you not to get distracted.” Skarde’s father said with a laugh.

Skarde had to laugh too. It had been a few days since he had last seen him. He had been working directly on the shoreline with the Hunters. Judging in the whale’s were scheduled to make come this evening.

They embraced, with Skarde having to bend down slightly, accommodating for their difference in height. They both lifted the broken mast out of its hole, and set it off to the side. It was still dry, so they would likely chop it up for firewood later. They were about to set in the new mast when they heard a distant, and familiar roar of thunder. They both looked up to see a figure soaring across the sky, and then toward them.

With a flash of lightning, the figure landed in the middle of the camp, and instantly, everyone set themselves on one knee and bowed. The Cheif had come. Resting in his hand was a massive sword, crackling with lightning. The Jormungandr. An ancient and powerful weapon that gave the Chief the power of the Storm. The winds became his ally. The lightning became his weapon.

Irock took a step forward before speaking. “Goodmorning to you all. May the strength of Geshumm flow through all of you.”

“And through you.” the small crowd said in unison, as was tradition. They waited for him to address them.

“I have come seeking a young Stormmender. By the name of Skarde.”

Shocked, Skarde stepped forward. He had always upheld the traditions. He had always fulfilled his tasks to completion. He had always given just as much as he had taken. What could possibly be the problem?

Facing him, Chief Irock strode forward. His eyes blank white, like all of theirs, but they would sometimes spark with magic energy, almost as though his power was desperate to be wielded, but only his sheer will was keeping it at bay.

“Skarde. I wish for you to come to the Elder’s Tent tonight after you finish your work. You are not required to make up their expended resources for you. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir. I will be there.”

Chief Irock nodded and then pointed the Jormungandr into the sky. With a crash of lightning coming down from the heavens and onto the sword, he flew back up into the sky, back to the Tribe.

Part II:

Saltwater burned his eyes as he desperately tried to mend the hole in the side of the longboat.

“Skarde! Get finished quickly! Gorign’s boat needs help!” a Hunter yelled at him amid the thunderous waves and the screaming wind.

Skarde finished up mending the longboat and then looked up. Right now, three boats were pursuing the whale. Hunters, with harpoons in their hands, hurled the pointed spikes with all their strength at the mighty beast, hoping that at one point, the prey would fall victim to its wounds.

Making sure his harness was intact and attached to the mast, Skarde made his way across the deck, barely keeping his balance as the longboat swayed back and forth in the massive waves. He saw the longboat in question making its way alongside his, and stood back, preparing to make a running jump onto it.

“20 meters… 15 meters….7 meters…. NOW!”

Skarde charged forward with all of his might, and lept off the deck, hoping that he timed his jump correctly. Below him, the swirling abyss of the Sea of Thunder raged on his precious boats, hoping that the ships, and everyone on them, would join them in their dance of fury.

Skarde landed aboard the longboat with a roll, immediately detaching himself from the boat he just left. A Hunter ran up to him, attaching the rope for this longboat, shouting at him that the front starboard had started leaking. Nodding, Skarde ran towards it, tools in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the hunters hurling their harpoons on the whale. Being a Hunter was dangerous to be sure, but most of them found great satisfaction in their work. They claimed that the thrill of their work was the best part of their job. Kneeling down to the leak, and instantly applying his skill to fix it, Skarde silently cursed himself for not feeling the same way. He wished that every time he lept of a deck he felt the same rush of excitement they felt. But all he felt was dread, and fear of what lied beneath the surface of the waters.

Luckily, the leak was an easy fix. Only took a couple of planks to patch up. As he stood up, he could hear roars and cheers through the crashing waves around him, as the Hunters finally beat their prey, which was floating dead in the water. They threw nets and ropes over it, calling for the boats to turn back to shore, for their work was done. Skarde heard another call for mending, as one of the boats which had taken the whale down had an entire side ripped off, and if something wasn’t done soon, they would be claimed by this infernal sea.

Skarde gritted his teeth as he came alongside his boat, and lept once again over waves, hoping that his feet would hit solid ground.

A few hours later, after putting final touches on the longboats and helping the Hunters clean out the whale for meat and its bones, Skarde was hiking back up to the Tribe, and he soon was in its midst.

Tribe Thordunn was a proud one. It kept to itself and made sure that while it was a strong presence, it ensured that it held its peace with the Orc and Goliath tribes around it. Thordunn was one of the last ancient tribes, which had been around since the days of old. When it was said gods walked among men.

Of course, its true source of power was the Chief. Chosen by the Jormungandr, the Chief was made to be the wisest, and the most powerful warrior among the people. To most, the Storm was a foe. To the Chief, the Storm was the blood in his veins.

Skarde, instead of making his way to his home, began to hike up the cliffside, toward the Elder’s Tent. He nodded to his neighbors as he passed by, though most of them were too focused on their work to properly acknowledge him. He was well-respected to be sure, as any Stormmender was, but it was mostly his size and strength people knew him for.

Eventually, with a trail of smoke coming out of it, Skarde came to Elder’s Tent. Irock was standing in front of it, waiting for him. Skarde bowed low to him, and Irock spoke.

“Thank you for coming, boy. This is a pressing matter, and the Elder’s thank you for your attendance.” He said as his grey beard swayed back and forth in the wind. For some time now, the Tribe had noticed that Irock was getting old. Skarde had never seen another Chief, but by any of their standard, Irock should have been retired from his position and into the Elders, the Jormungandr choosing a new Chief in his place. He was becoming old, and weak. The Jormungandr could give him its power, but at the end of the day, The Chief cannot display weakness of any kind. Despite this, he was still a well-respected man.

“Come inside now. The Elders wish to speak with you.”

Skarde was let inside to see a circle of seven old Goliaths around a blazing fire. Skarde stepped forward, and knelt before them, waiting to be addressed.

“Skarde Stormmender Thordunn. You have been summoned today to be tested,” one of them said as he took his place on the mat, Irock standing behind him.

Another spoke, “The Elders have been searching for the next Chief for a long time now, and it seemed us as though the Jormungandr’s might had moved on from his generation. However, you are now of age, and have more strength inside you than most of our kind could ever hope to feel. Hold out your arms.”

With stunned silence, Skarde held out his arms facing upwards. A Chief? Him?! Impossible. He was strong, to be sure, but had no knowledge of how to lead the Tribe, or fight against its enemies.

Irock displayed the Jormungandr from the side of him, and even without touching it, Skarde could feel its energy making the hairs on his neck and arms stand. With ever so slight of a touch, Irock touched Skarde’s forearm with the tip of the Jormungandr.

Suddenly, Skarde felt untapped power rushing through his veins. He nearly blacked out as a wave of strength tapped into every muscle. He could feel the energy which he had never felt before flowing through him, as the Jormungandr touched his arm. He felt it leaves its places, and just as instantly as it came, the energy left him. On his arm, was now a glowing blue rune, which he had never seen before.

The Elders stood and bowed toward him. “Welcome, chosen of the Jormungandur. May you lead us with strength, and wisdom in the future.” One of them spoke, “You shall begin your training at Irock’s longhouse at sunrise. Goodbye, Skarde Stormmender Thordunn.”

With stunned silence, he followed Irock out of the tent, the rune still glowing brightly on his arm. Irock turned to him and spoke.

“Well, I certainly look forward to finally putting this thing down. Let’s hope you’re up to the task. Goodnight Skarde.”

Skarde turned to leave in silence, but then asked Irock, “...how are you all sure it’s me? Couldn’t anyone have magical runes?”

Irock laughed, and then exposed his forearm. On it, was the same rune, but his was glowing gold.

“This rune unites all Chiefs, boy. Don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily.” With that, he turned to leave.

Skarde made his way back to his home, wondering how the winds and the sea would one day, learn to become his friend.

Part III:

That night, Skarde was sitting in front of the hearth, carefully observing the flames, and silently thanking their warmth. He could hear his mother sharpening her ax at her desk in the corner. His mother, Helga, had met his father while treating him for a bad goblin poison which was coated on the blade that pierced him. Their friends always told Skarde of the loud, and insult-filled arguments that they would have, disrupting other healers just trying to treat their patients. Eventually, they got so good at arguing that they decided to wed. A few years down the line, they had Skarde, but a bad battle would to Helga punctured her uterus and castrated her. Skarde didn’t know if her ever wanted siblings, though their company might have been nice. Skarde himself was coming to the age in which he needed to leave his parent’s longhouse and begin a family of his own, as was tradition. But at this point, there were few females who wished to be with a Stormmender and juvenile one at that. Perhaps being the Chief would change this? Skarde didn’t put too much thought into this.

Skarde’s mother stopped sharpening her ax, and came and sat by him. She put a blanket over his shoulders and spoke.

“Well, if you were going to become anything at the end of the day, Chief would be a start,” she said with a chuckle.

“Perhaps,” said Skarde. “But a good one is what most hope that I would be.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You think Irock knew what to do as soon as he first held the Jormungandr? Do you think that you knew what to do what you first held your set of tools in your hands? What did you do? You learned! You borrowed from the strength of others so that you could return the favor in the future!... This is no different. I faith in you, son.”

A mother’s touch went a long way in soothing an anxious mind. However, with this one, she had a tone of pride, which any warrior should. Helga was a special woman to the Tribe. She was regarded as one of the most skilled warriors in the Tribe. She was in charge of training the female warriors, called Protectors.

Although the males were put at the front lines in combat, the females always had the duty of protecting the Tribe, which was ultimately the most important job. The females were taught to fight relentlessly, for they were to be the last warriors standing. It was said that there used to be a time when the females were considered inferior to males on the battlefield. Those times were over.

“Thank you mother,” Skarde muttered, standing up, “I need some rest.”

“Yes, you do! The whole tribe is going to know about this tomorrow! Best prepare yourself for this one. Every shieldmaiden will be throwing themselves at you as soon as you step out the door!”

Laughing, Skarde layed upon his bed, somewhat dreading the next day.

“Look boy, I’m not sure if you have eyes, but a greataxe is not what you’re going to have to get good with,” Irock grumbled, somewhat annoyed.

Skarde dropped his greataxe to the ground, making a defeated *thump*. “I don’t suppose you have a great big sword like that lying about, do you?” referencing the Jormungandr strapped to Irock’s back.

“I’m glad you brought it up,” the Chief said proudly, turning around to the table he was working at. He picked up a massive greatsword, different runes beautifully etched into the blade and hilt. He tossed it to Skarde, who caught it awkwardly.

“Using a greatsword is a lot like mending a ship. You need to be careful, precise, and wise, but at the end of the day you’ve got to be strong if you want anything down,” Irock told him as Skarde admired the blade. It fit nicely in his hands, despite the weight being very odd to him.

“For the next year, we are going to train. Yes, how to use that sword you’ve got there, but also learn how to be wise, peacefully display your strength, and defend the Tribe. Is this clear to you?”

Skarde nodded, not know what he was getting himself into.

Over the passing of the next year, Skarde and Irock spent nearly every day with one another, training on every part of how to be a good Chief. He learned to use the greatsword, and how to spot things that most could not. He learned to trust the Storm, for it was his ally, and he learned how to speak with authority to his peers. Then, one day, Irock said to him, “It is time for you to take your place as chief. The Blessing of the Jormungandr will take place tomorrow, and you will take your place as the rightful ruler of this Tribe.”

Skarde was prepared, and he could feel it, but oftentimes, he still felt a raging doubt from within, screaming that he wasn’t enough to lead Tribe Thordunn. Whether it be his inexperience with nearly everything Irock had taught him, or how he knew he still wasn’t the best fighter the Tribe had. All of this bore down on him that night, and he barely got any sleep.

In the morning, he headed down to the Shoreline with all of the other men of the tribe. As their boats left the shore, he could feel strength rising within himself. Whether it be the crash of waves upon the side of the boat or the electrifying sounds of lightning hitting the water, he could feel an ancient power calling to his soul. Soon, they reached the area of interest. The Altar of Gesshum, where it was said that Gesshum landed himself on the earth.

The boats made a complete circle around the rock in the middle of the storm. Their chanting rising even above the cries and howls of the waves and wind. Their beating drums pushing Skarde to climb up to the top, with Irock waiting with the Jormungandr strapped to his back. Skarde layed himself upon the Altar,

Irock spoke in the ancient language all of them knew, but rarely used (Giant), “Skarde Stormmender Thordunn, may your path ahead be raised to glory, and your rule be just. May your ancestors give you strength. May the Jormungandr give you more,” he chanted as he summoned a great bolt of lightning from the heavens, electrifying himself in all the Jormungandr’s power. He outstretched his hand to Skarde, meaning to give him all of it.

Then, a piercing roar from the sky ripped apart the chanting, as a great, terrible, menacing figure illuminated itself in its own lightning. Breaking through the clouds was a massive, dreadful dragon. The entire fleet instantly stopped chanted and began yelling at what to do as it flew down towards them. Irock stopped the ritual and hurled himself into the sky with the Jormungandr to meet this new foe.

Skarde lept off of the Altar back onto the boat, trying to find some way to help, but found none. All he could do was watch as the dragon and Irock battled in the sky. Instantly, everyone knew it would not go well. Irock summoned a great lightning bolt which gave off more light than the sun itself, and hurled it at the dragon. The dragon simply brushed it aside, and swept a massive claw at him, nearly knocking him out the sky. Despite his greatest effort, Irock eventually took a massive hit from another one of its claws, and fell out of the sky, into the ocean, with the Jormungandr falling with him.

The dragon landed on the Altar, and with a tremendous roar, expelled a stream of lightning from its maw upon the fleet, hitting the ship Skarde was on.

Before Skarde knew it, he was pinned under the ship, with it dragging him down through the depths. This was exactly what Skarde feared. Powerless. Afraid. Desperate. He felt the boat hit the bottom of the Sea, and realised that there was an air pocket right above him. He tried to swim toward him but found that there was a mast pinning him against the ocean floor. Would this be how he died? A failure? So close to one of the only victories he would ever have? These thoughts raged in his mind as he desperately pushed up against the ship, but knew his next few moments were his last as the life began to suffocate from his lungs.

Then, a new feeling erupted from him. Rage. Unrelenting. Pure. Fury. Every thought of self-doubt, every fear of the sea, every moment where he thought of himself as less than came up to a boiling rage. With a sudden spasm of energy, Skarde lifted the entire mast off of himself and swam up to the air pocket. Gasping for air, he felt hope within himself once more, combined with the rage still burning in his soul.

He took a moment to figure out his situation. It was pitch black, and he could see nothing. He could not be that far down. Otherwise, he would still be sinking. Probably fifty-sixty feet. He took a deep breath and dove down. There was an opening at the bottom of the ship, and to his surprise, glittering, and still sparking with lightning, the Jormungandr layed on the rocks. Right next to it was a crack in the ocean, leading to places only the gods would know.

Going back up to the air pocket, Skarde realized why the dragon had come. It had to be the Jormungandr. There was no way he was getting out of here with it, that was for sure. Realizing his plan, he went back down to the ancient sword, kicking it into the abyss, which was big enough for him to explore, but not the dragon. One day, when he was ready, he would return. But for now, he needed to get back to the Tribe.

Swimming back to the surface, he saw the dragon flying off, perhaps in satisfaction, or perhaps admitting defeat in trying to find the source of its rival lightning. Skarde latched onto a floating piece of driftwood and began to kick his way back to shore.

It took longer than he would ever hope, but eventually, he reached the familiar shore. As he blacked out, he could see figures running toward, and heard them calling for help.

He awoke a few days later, learning that the dragon had devastated all of the ships, and had killed half the men there. The Elders told Skarde of another way to reach his power. He needed to grow, learn to hone his new Rage, until the rune on his forearm turned to gold. Then, he could wield the Jormungandr without the requirement of a Chief to pass it on. They told him that the south held a land called Prael, which was a good place to look for monsters to slay and ways to expand his powers. They gave him a sending stone so he could talk to them if he could (it was connected to the Elder’s Tent). The next day, he set out on a makeshift longboat, hoping that what was ahead would be brighter than what was behind.

## Abilities

Skaard is a Barbarian, and has taken on many powerful abilities which compliment his specialty.

He has Rage, which gives him the abilites to become resistent to all physical attacks, making him very difficult to bring down in a non-arcane battle.

He has become a Great-Weapon Master, giving him the ability to wield great weapons, such as Greatswords and Warhammers, as though they were regularly sized. He can put devestating damage on his enemies with this technique.

He can breath underwater and move as easily underwater if it were land.

His Rage gives him the ability to charge lightning though his body while he is raging, and can direct it at enemies while he's in combat.