*Wojekt Skaldsunu*

Nornic Skald


Epithets: Loom, Spider

Race: Human. Mostly Saxa, also Finnar and Tuomi.

Patron Deity: The Norns, who don’t care that they are his patron.

Agility d8
Smarts d8
Strength d8
Spirit d4
Vigor d8

Other Stats

Charisma: +1, with an additional +1 Heroic Status

Glory: 43
XP: 36

Parry: 7, 9 with shield

Toughness: 7, 9 with chain armor (head is only 75% to protect), +3 against ranged attacks with shield.

Pace: 8, with d10 running die


Saxa, Trader, Auld Saxa, The Black Tongue


Code of Honor
Apprentice Skald – he will not raise his spell-casting die above a d6 until he decides how to carry on the family tradition that is his forced burden.
Quirk – is “homeless”, and does not generally accept offers of hospitality beyond a meal or mead.


Arcane Background: Eddic Magic
Level Headed – not currently active
Combat Reflexes


Fighting d10
Stealth d8
Lockpicking d6
Climbing d6
Eddic Magic d6
Persuasion d8
Riding d4
Epic Poetry and Folklore, d4.
Knowledge of Riddles, d4.
Knitting, Weaving and Various Garment Crafting, d4.

Spell Poems

“That first I know, when by strange tongues
all others are confused
I speak a few words, and in the next breath
all said is understood.”

“That second I know, that if need is great
and body or learning fails,
I chant a charm and mind reshapes,
fingers grow deft, and muscles bolder.

That third I know, that if need is great
and a foeman’s thews triumph,
I chant, but strange, and mind escapes,
fingers seem slow, and fiery spirit colder."

“That fourth I know, when I wield a sword,
I whisper heroes’ deeds, their blows long laid
and in a moment become them; for my foes,
neither wits nor weapons avail.”

“That fifth I know, if wind Norn’s threads
From I to a foe, sleep’s sweet song
Brings no rest; I alight in dreams,
Threads of magic and fate my steeds.

I am cloaked in ghost stories,
My countenance most grim ghoul’s,
In my hands, swords of fear and blood,
From my mind spew monsters.

He writhes and moans in the night,
Disturbs his bedmate; dogs whine.
He awakes with a jolt, with sweat.
He foresees his ruin, he expects me."

(Speak Language
Boost/Lower Trait
Warrior’s Gift

Notable Gear

Combat Gear – Wojekt always tries to carry this.

Chain hauberk and Coif
Two longswords (one is backup)
The Golem’s Buckler, a medium shield that gives an additional +1 Parry.
Two knives.

Combat weight is 53.

Adventure Gear – Wojekt carries this, leaving his miscellaneous possessions somewhere safe, if he thinks he’ll need to operate for an extended period while in the ‘danger zone’.

Boot spikes, a whistle, a waterskin, lockpicks, flint and steel. This weighs 6 pounds combined.

Other Gear – Wojekt carries this in combat only if he absolutely has to, in which case he has the overburdened penalty.

A pack with snowshoes, ice skates, rope, climbing gear, furs, winter clothing, whetstone, butchering knives, blanket, and knitting supplies.

Build Notes:

Human free edge: Brawny.
Hindrance edge: Arcane Background: Rhyme Wisardry
Hindrance attribute boost: Smarts to d8
5 – Strength increase to d8.
10 – Fleet Footed
15 – Persuasion to d8, Lockpicking to d6
20 – Fighting to d10
Seasoned Special – Riding to d4, Stealth to d8, Thief
25 – Vigor to d8
30 – New Power – Nightmare
35 – Edge – Combat Reflexes

Glory Rewards

20 – Heroic Status – +1 to Persuasion, Streetwise
40 – Combat Prowess – Level-Headed


To his mother, he was Wojekt Skaldsunu. To his village, he was Loom, and also Spider. To his gods, the Norns, he was just a thread, interesting only because it carried on through the tapestry when any other would have been tied off. To the rest of the vast world, though, he is a stranger, an outsider, young yet scarred, strong yet cunning, with a strange philosophy and stranger stories. The only thing more memorable than the way he would disappear into the night both bearing more weight and walking more quickly than any others could was the way he would sit at a fire and stare, his green gaze full of a strange mix of hate, fear, and curiosity.

He grew up in a tiny village of weavers and hunters deep in the High Winterlands, adherents to the rules of the Norns. He was trained in their ways, inspecting each moment to know whether something momentous was in store, and mindful of telling only legends that cloaked as much truth as they revealed. In all seasons the skill of the hunters preserved the villagers’ bodies, and the skill of the legend-weavers preserved their souls. Travelers came from distant realms to trade for the fine clothes and tapestries of the village, and were always kept in hospitality for several days, given so much food that they had no choice but to save some for the long and difficult journeys back. One day, though, years before Wojekt should come of age, a traveler arrived who the legend-weavers sensed was a figure of great fate, of doom. He stayed in the village for three days, trading not, but desiring only to speak of the great Song Cloth, the World Weave, which was a slanted simile to the Norns’ own and the most prized possession of the village, unseen by visitors.

On the third day, when guests are expected to provide a gift to extend their stay, this traveler said that he would give a gift such that the village would never need again, and as the flames from the torches of those miserable, twisted gifts engulfed the longhouse, and as the Norns tied off the threads of the tiny village, Wojekt first felt terror. Escaping flashing swords, he ushered several of his kindsmen into the storeroom of the longhouse, and finding no barricade possible, held the door against the might of the horde and the heat of the fire until the attackers had finished their looting. When the beasts ceased to pull on the handles, and their civilized tongue was no longer heard over the inferno, Wojekt hurried out of the crumbling storeroom, looking back to see that all he had tried to save had perished from flame or smoke. He collapsed, sweating, in the falling snow, as ash from the fire and his lungs blackened it.

From that day forward, when he came of age sooner than he should, Wojekt has been a wanderer. He has traded stories and craft where he could, hunted where that failed, and stolen when necessary. He is always careful to take from the common-folk no more than they would have been obligated by hospitality to provide, thinking that this preserves the goodness of that law while not allowing for betrayals. For those who own more craft than they could have ever truly earned with skill, or who claim to own lands where they never sleep nor tend cattle nor plow fields, or who claim dominion over souls they cannot protect, he has no qualms about taking anything. In his travels, he tends to interact with those on the fringes of society, who appreciate the allure of a lonely life, who know the lure of a soft story. Most of those would be more hesitant to share a fire with him if they knew the truth: he burns with rage, feels that a death is more desirous than a maimed or imprisoned life, and hears at some nights the whispers of true demons who know of his potential for great hate and violence. None would suffer him if they knew that on some nights, he speaks back.

Wojekt’s Poetry

*Wojekt Skaldsunu*

Masters of the World thatdarnedbob