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Brynjar Witch-Breaker

"Odin! Hear my call!"

0 · 354 views · located in Midgard

a character in “On Icy Shores - Redux”, as played by LordTalbot






Hair: Long white hair, tinged with blonde.
Facial Hair: Long beard held together at the front with a ring.
Eyes: A striking ice-blue.
Build: Stocky, but slightly hunched due to his advanced age.
Skin Tone: Weathered brown.
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 16st
Voice: Deep, he speaks slowly and not often.
Handed: Right
Body Markings: He has some simple runes scarred onto the skin of his arms.
Scar Tissue: Numerous scars from a lifetime of fighting and hunting.
Unique Body Features: He has a large tattoo of a wolf on his back
Dress: Brynjar wears a motley of animal skins, chain mail and thick woolen layers. Most of the cloth coloured black, he blends into his surroundings with ease. He carries a two-handed daneaxe alongside a sword and saexe. On his back is an old shield, covered in cuts and splinters. He wears no helmet, allowing his hair to blow in the breeze, but his fur-lined cloak has a hood he often wears.

Brynjar Olafsson


Since he left civilisation he has had no real title

Factual Age



Quiet and imposing, Brynjar is a mysterious figure. He speaks very little, and when he does he gives very little away. He knows a lot about the world, and more than most men. He keeps himself to himself, preferring the company of animals and the wilds to other people. When roused Brynjar can be a ferocious warrior, ignoring pain and fighting with the strength of a bear, hence his nickname. His eyes see everything, and his gaze can make people uncomfortable. He also has an uncanny ability to know when people are lying.

Most prominent personality trait: Silence. He moves and speaks very quietly for a man of his size.

Best traits of their personality: Brynjar will always help those in need, though often in ways they didn't think they needed to be. He also has a constant soft spot for animals.

Worst traits of their personality: Quick to anger when provoked, Brynjar will lash out at all he sees responsible, often hunting people down across great distances and even great lengths of time.

Brynjar is motivated by his desire to serve the gods, live honourably, and die fighting.

Being alone - Brynjar never feels comfortable around people or settlements, preferring solitude in the wild, under the stars he feels at home.

Riddles - A prolific skald, Brynjar often speaks his mind in riddles, thoroughly enjoying trading riddles with other people when he is around them.

Ravens - Symbols of Odin, he always feels drawn to them when he sees one, especially since he often receives messages from Odin in their form.

Good omens - Any man who follows the will of the gods has an eye for omens, and a good one always lets Brynjar relax.

Monsters and witches - A true servant of the gods, Brynjar has a fierce hatred of anything unholy, hence his nickname. He has spent the more recent years hunting trolls in the mountains above Norvegr.

Being around large groups - Noise and distractions have never been good things for Brynjar. The only loud noises he appreciates are those of the music of battle.

Eating too much - Brynjar eats very little and needs only to eat a little, as he has become adept at conserving energy.

Memories - Reliving the time before he came to serve the gods causes Brynjar pain, and any who ask him about it are swiftly put in their place, either with a harsh word or the butt of his axe.


Marital Status



Brynjar's background is a mystery to all but himself, and he has tried hard to forget his past. It is rumoured that once he was a thegn, earning fame and fortune fighting for one of the Jarls of Danemark, there and on raids. He lived as any other self-respected Dane did, drinking and fighting in equal measure, revelling in close loyalties with his Jarl, his family and friends. So when the Jarl proposed a raid on East Anglia Brynjar lept at the opportunity, banging his chest and loudly declaring that he would bring back the head of a Saxon noble. The omens for the raid were bad from the start, foul weather keeping them from leaving, and them the ravens refusing to enter the longship. Despite the warnings the gods sent, Brynjar and the Jarl pushed on, sailing across the sea and attacking the Saxon lands. All went well until the return trip, when Thor, angry at their arrogance, broke their longship upon towering waves and flashes of thunder. Cast into the sea, Brynjar floated on the wreckage of the ship, surrounded by the bodies of his comrades, falling in and out of consciousness as the storm lashed on.

When he awoke, Brynjar was weak and emaciated, washed up on the shores of a fjord in Norvegr. He was dragged ashore by a man in a dark cloak and laid up in a turf hut, a fire lit to warm his sodden and broken bones. For the next three weeks Brynjar continued to live as if in a dream, rising from consciousness to be fed by the stranger, then falling back onto the bed. In these flashes of clarity he took in the appearance of his rescuer, an old man, with one eye covered by a patch. This man would come and go, sometimes with a raven on his shoulder. It was when he awoke properly from his fever that Brynjar realised who his rescuer was. Odin. Falling to his knees Brynjar cursed himself and his name, wracked with guilt at his arrogance and insulting of the gods. He looked around for Odin, but he was gone, leaving only a raven whose black eye followed Brynjar's every move. Pulling a knife from his boot, Brynjar carved the valknut onto his arm, swearing himself forever to Odin's service. With that the raven flew off, leaving him alone.

For the next three years Brynjar lived in the turf hut, regaining his strength and contemplating the mysteries of the gods. Often visited by the raven, he was ever aware of Odin's watchful eye. Hunting and training, Brynjar slowly regained his strength, then surpassing it as he heaved logs hewn far up in the mountains. It was in the mountains that Brynjar came across his first troll. Splitting logs to take back to the hut, Brynjar was disturbed by a great snapping behind him. Ducking to the ground he missed death by inches as a tree flew over him, crashing to the ground a few feet away. Whipping around, axe in hand, Brynjar had a moment to see a huge brown shape barrelling at him before he was thrown backwards into a tree, the impact stealing all his breath. The troll roared and brandished its claws at him as it came again, sensing his weakness. Standing tall and bellowing his own warcry, Brynjar lept at the troll, burying his axe repeatedly in its arms and head. Blood flew from the troll and from the great rents it tore in his flesh, but eventually it fell, Brynjar's axe buried in its forehead. On that day, Brynjar decided he was ready to do Odin's will, gathering his things from the hut and setting off into the wilderness.

Since then, Brynjar has gone from place to place, hunting creatures that terrorise the people of Scandinavia, even riding with the Odensjakt once. He has upgraded his equipment since the encounter with the troll, and fighting some human enemies has given him a terrifying array of armour and weaponry. However, he remains a solitary character, unwilling to receive adulation for his actions and often leaving people wary of him. Now he conducts his yearly pilgrimage to Uppsala, to give thanks to the gods, and contemplate where he is to go for the next year.

So begins...

Brynjar Witch-Breaker's Story


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The silence in the forest was thick, the only sound Brynjar could hear being the pounding of his heart as he pushed through the deep snow between the trees. Steam rose from his breath in great clouds, quickly dissipating in the freezing air. His hood was pulled as far over his head as it could be, a scarf covering his mouth and nose, and a piece of bark with two slits in it covering his eyes against snow blindness. Around his shoulders was a new bearskin he had been preparing during the autumn, its heavy folds saving his shoulders from the piercing cold. Slung over his back were all the possessions he had. His pack, containing dried food supplies, his flint, and some other bits and pieces hung next to the long shaft of his Dane-axe, the steel head of which was sheathed in a leather covering. Forcing his wrapped feet through the snow, Brynjar had been walking for days, the conditions getting better as he had dropped down out of the mountains to the West. Now he could see his destination ahead of him, a few plumes of smoke, and rising above to the North, the slanted eaves of the temple. Every year he made this journey, from wherever he was, and he would continue to do so until he could no longer walk.

The sun reaching its height on the short winter day, Brynjar, avoiding the settlement for now, began to climb the hill towards the temple. Following the trail marked by branch-woven arches and hanging symbols laden with snow, he climbed further and further. Icicles hung from the trees, and jingled with a strange ethereal sound in the breeze, the silence of earlier broken gently by that and the faint sound of waves from the sea far below. Reaching the exterior of the temple, Brynjar reached up his mitten covered hands, taking the bark from his eyes and pulling his scarf down. The temple rose above him, its dark wooden eaves looming into the sky in stark contrast to the white trees that surrounded it. Stepping between two braziers outside the entrance, Brynjar entered with his head bowed. Little shards of ice fell from his beard as he raised his head and pushed back his hood, casting his piercing blue eyes around the dimly lit space. Carved statues of the gods rose out of corners, surrounded by their symbols, but there was only one Brynjar was interested in. Stepping forwards, his footsteps echoing in the high space, he walked towards the largest statue at the far end of the temple. Odin, the All-Father. Falling to his knees Brynjar raised his hands above his head, feeling every one of his scars pulse with the moment.

It was a while before Brynjar emerged from the temple, the sun already beginning its swift descent. He shrugged his shoulders to reposition his pack, now a little lighter than before, with tokens of his victories over beasts left before the altar of the All-Father. Casting his gaze round the forest before him, he pulled his hood back up and smoothed his beard with his hand, brushing more ice onto the floor. Wrapping his cloak around his forearms, he stepped off back down the track towards the settlement. Brynjar didn't like being around large numbers of people, but it seemed impossible to avoid them this time. He needed to buy a few items he could not make himself, and besides, he had felt something pulling him in the direction of Uppsala since before he had crossed the mountains from Hordaland. He did not understand, but for some reason he felt he was meant to be there, and long experience had lead him to trust these feelings. A movement in the corner of his eye caught Brynjar's attention. A raven. So that was who had pulled him here. But for what purpose? Time would tell.

As he descended Brynjar could see more of the settlement laid out below him between the trees. Uppsala was small, and hugged the coast below the temple. It consisted of a great hall and a few wooden huts, some turf huts spreading out from the centre. Pulled up against the small dock were a couple of longships, which, by their markings, Bryjar guessed came from Danemark. Smoke rose from the houses, and from the noise that rose up in snatches with the wind, some heavy drinking was in progress at the hall. Brynjar sighed. He would try to find shelter in one of the outlying houses, after he had seen what was going on at the hall. He wanted to be around the noise as little as possible. Hefting his pack and axe, he continued his descent, keeping an eye on the raven as it followed him from the treetops.


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Character Portrait: Kotah Character Portrait: Brynjar Witch-Breaker Character Portrait: Vilhjalma Litsdottir Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Silver eyes flashed, watching the man pass first on the way towards the temple and then back down towards the town. White fur lined with brown streaks was the perfect camouflage in the cold snowy woods and she was not worried that she might be spotted. He was interesting, or at least a break in the monotony of her wait. She had a feeling upon seeing him that it would not be her last. But she was not here for an old man. Her body was large and warm and she felt comfortable, despite the sheer winds and the dampness of the ground beneath her. The Tigress crouched low to the earth and peered out towards the town of Uppsala, prepared for a long wait. For one reason or another, her charge had decided to go down into perhaps one of the largest settlements she had ever seen. She felt a twinge of regret, she should be down there to protect her. She shook her head and snorted. Vilhjalma was a warrior, she hadn't been a child for some time, she could defend herself.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Brynjar Witch-Breaker Character Portrait: Cwen of Wessex Character Portrait: Ekkhart Dumont Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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How they had got here, she did not know. Following lead upon lead they had traversed turbulent oceans, deadly weather and dire . . . folk, to put it nicely. It could have easily been quite an adventure if it was not for their paramount and secretive motives. To be completely honest Cwen of Wessex was no entirely certain when they first set off from their home far, far west that they'd pass as these quite frankly heathens.

However, fortunately for the party it wasn't the first run in they had had with these sort of people. They were 'neighbours' back in Wessex, kept at bay by the people of the land and under the king's rule. As they should be.

Cwen's idle musing shattered as she rolled the dice and an uproar erupted in the great hall.

"That's your bull, sowe and next I'll have the shirt off your back." She winked at Artair who'd she'd beat for the third time running.

"Horse shit!" Artair bellowed swinging himself off the table with his jug causing another ripple of laughter to rumble through the hall by his compatriots.

The eight of them had taken over the scarcely decorated hall. The seven of them had gathered around the trestles to rest, drink and warm up by the roaring fires. With grump Ekkhart deep in his corner tending to his blades. Cwen smiled as she glanced in his direction for a moment. He was a good man of few words.

"You've wicked luck lad." Magen winked at her as he swept up the dice.

Uppsala was a strange place. The cold and snow here was almost enchanting. The same weather back home could chill one to the bone. This place made the Lady wary.

"Your turn Acwel." Kill. A manly name. Her alias in this strange place where no one knew who or what she was, besides her men. It was safer to tie her hair up in a plait with armour and a helm and parade around as a man. She couldn't say it was liberating. Being a Saxon woman she had all the liberties and rights as a man. She owed land in her own right, she had inheritance, she could refuse to marry any man she seemed unworthy. As a consequence of this tumultuous journey, Cwen realised how lucky she truly was being a Saxon woman. Norse society was very male dominated. Cwen understood now why Magen has stressed she disguise herself as a man. A reason she had grudgingly accepted not knowing that the Norse women lived a very down trodden life compared to their Saxon counterparts.

This was a strange land. The Lady could not help but ruminate over and over again. The more reason to find Arlyss as soon as possible and head back to home sweet home.