Naerfi Vebrandsson
| Naerfi Vebrandsson | |||||||
| Male Svartalfar (Ysgardian Dark Elf) | |||||||
| Player: TheInnkeeper | |||||||
[[Image: |300x600px|]]
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| General Information | ||||||||||
| Full Name: | Naerfi Vebrandssoon | |||||||||
| Nicknames: | Dwelf | |||||||||
| Age: | 142 | |||||||||
| Deity: | Balder | |||||||||
| Alignment: |
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| Occupation: | Skald | |||||||||
| Faction/Rank: | The Society of Sensation, Namer. | |||||||||
| Place of Birth: | Ysgard, Nidavellir, Svartalfheim, Dokkar | |||||||||
| Physical Attributes | ||||||||||
| Height: | Short. | |||||||||
| Weight: | Not much. | |||||||||
| Eyes: | Grey | |||||||||
| Hair: | Silvery White, in a Mohawk style. | |||||||||
| Complexion: | Fair and gentle | |||||||||
| Physical Build: | Meek | |||||||||
| Physical Features: | Naerfi is a short, sickly-built Svartalfar with a body utterly unsuited to the combat for which Ysgard is so widely famed. His expressions are soft and timid, and he is most often seen humming or singing, lost in his own little world of sorrow for the lost. | |||||||||
| Skills | ||||||||||
| An exceptional bard in his own right, even before any magical influence, Naerfi excels in dirges for the dead and lost. Lamentations for those passed that are powerful enough to beckon the living - and the undead - to their graves - Or similarly rouse the dead and dying back to feet to fight on and continue their stories. | ||||||||||
| Equipment and Items | ||||||||||
| Naerfi doesn't wear much of anything impressive. Simple, earthy tones and a veil that covers his face at most times. | ||||||||||
Personal History
Raised in the largest city in the realm of the Ysgardian Dark Elves, Naerfi wanted for little and less, growing up. Taught by some of the greatest bards the layer had ever known when he could pry them from their performances in the city, it's no secret that he's rather the fan-boy for great, passed heroes. Beowulf, Hrothgar, Haki. The list of fallen legends from Midgard that Naerfi can spin you a tale of could go on and on forever.
And yet he always found himself longing for something more. Of course, the deeds of the Ysgardians should be shouted for all the planes to praise, no doubt, but what of those who failed? Those warriors, mages, and would-be legends that fell on their path to greatness, now forgotten in some dusty tomb or jotun's lair? Who would sing of their deeds, incomplete and remorsefully short as they were? None in Svartalfheim, that he could find, and so Naerfi took it upon himself at a young age to learn of those who lost - from the mourning, and the grieving, and the hopeful-turned-sorrowful at the fates of their missing.
But this was not well received, by the bards he knew. None wish to hear the depressing tale of Yigvuld, who stepped upon a pressure plate and was riddled with arrows. Or Heimsglad, who died of a disease at the age of eighty-three. Or poor old Hreki, who barely stepped off the longboat before being impaled in the eye by a passing arrow. These tales were not inspiring - they were rather the opposite. Sorrowful and mournful. He was encouraged to give up. To quit, and return to the joy of the well-sung heroes.
He did not.
Naerfi left Svartalfheim not long after his first performance and vowed only to return when his song was great enough - powerful, moving, and despairing enough that it could speak to even the ghosts and banshees of Yggwyrd, and allow him passage into the city of the dead - to perform a lamentation for all the ancestors of his clan, that would echo around Svartalfheim until the days of Ragnarok.
Personality
Naerfi is best summed up as 'meek at best, cowardly at worst'. Shying away from any combat in which he actually might get hurt - or confrontation in general - Naerfi is a quiet, sheltered individual, who's shy to speak up and even moreso to continue. Yet when he breaks into song - sometimes at random moments - an air of confidence that is powerful enough to rouse the dead from their graves bursts forth from the small shell. A commander, a leader, even, on the field of battle which he detests being part of so much. Yet calling the shots themselves, he finds comes far easier than making them. Of course he's no stranger to fighting, but prefers to do so from the next hill over, singing and yelling and firing a longbow at 200 paces.