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Povel Ulfsson

Farmer Turned Mercenary

0 · 228 views · located in Midgard

a character in “On Icy Shores - Redux”, as played by Towels0



Povel Ulfsson


Hair: near shoulder-length, blonde hair
Facial Hair: none
Eyes: dull blue
Build: thin but firm and strong from years of farming
Skin Tone: pale
Height: 5"7
Weight: 9st
Voice: average pitch with a firm tone that makes him sound older than he is
Handed: right
Body Markings: none
Scar Tissue: one, long scar that extends from the wrist to the elbow
Unique Body Features: calloused hands
Dress: Povel wears green, linen clothes with a cloak and fur hat. Altogether, the outfit looks like something a merchant would wear, but it is visibly worn and faded upon closer inspection. A simple, iron sword is sheathed on his left hip and a dagger is in a pocket in his cloak.

Povel Ulfsson

The Fox

Mr. for rare formal occasions

Factual Age



Povel has the attitude of a simple farmer: polite, patient, hard-working, and easy-going. What sets him apart from his peers is his cleverness. His eyes are usually alert and he is known for his quick responses and unconventional ideas and solutions. Due to life experiences, he tends to be grim and business-oriented. Additionally, he is a loyal follower who hates the responsibility of leadership. This has been a bane and a boon for him as he is rarely greedy or discontent, but easily bends his will to authority.

Povel's primary goal is to survive. When that is taken care of, he seeks to have the wealth, fame, and respect of a folk-tale hero.

Safety, loyalty, purpose, heroism

Betrayal, having to lead, uncertainty, unjust rulers


Marital Status

A large family of his parents and many brothers and sisters of varying ages.

Povel was born to a poor family of farmers in a small village in Hälsingland. His siblings, both older and younger, were mostly lucky and survived infancy. This was not lucky for the family however as his parents struggled to adequately feed and clothe all of their children. As soon as he was old enough to swing a scythe, Povel was sent to work in the wheat field. It was during this time that he adopted his serious temperament. Youthful joy and softness was replaced with grimness and strength after years of hard living. Like his older siblings and parents, he grew up tough and lean. Still, his childhood was not all negative. There were the occasional village gatherings for dances and feasts. His father, though he did not have the time to give much attention, occasionally captivated his children with folktales of brave warriors and the gods.

As Povel aged, he and his family learned that he was not just simple farm-folk. Unable to work the fields for some time after a poorly-placed scythe sliced his arm, Povel took to wandering in the forest. It was during this time that he started thinking outside of the predictable cycle of farming. He found a previously-hidden stream and started suggesting improvements for the hunters' traps that were in the forest. Noticing his cleverness, he gained the nickname of "the fox". The village saw use in him and he began splitting his time working between the farm and problem-solving for the villagers. Life was tough, but the town managed. This state continued for years until a famine came to the village.

It started with a poor crop yield. No one thought much of it at the time. These things happened and the poor folks just had to make do. However, next year's crop yielded even less and the pattern continued. Povel watched helplessly as younger siblings died of illness or wasted away to nothing. Villagers rarely smiled anymore and feasts were cancelled as there wasn't enough food. Povel's simple, peaceful life had become full of fear an uncertainty as there was always a possibility that he or someone he loved would soon die. Some of the less dedicated young men his age abandoned their families to famine in search of wealth and adventure. Povel, however, was determined to see the situation through with his family and townsmen. Eventually, it became clear that there could not be enough food for all of Povel's family. His father scraped together what money he could and, dividing it among his older sons, sent them out. It seemed that fate wanted to thrust adventure onto Povel despite his attempt at living a quiet life. Seeking the payment and glory of mercenary work, he decided to make the trek to Uppsala.

So begins...

Povel Ulfsson's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Povel Ulfsson Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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#, as written by Towels0
Smoke curled upwards in the distance as a lean figure plodded towards it. The traveler, Povel, watched it longingly, hoping to warm up at its source and rest his tired feet. He watched as the smoke’s path was shifted by a gust of wind. Wrapping himself tighter in his cloak, he wished that his father had given him more fur before his departure. The young farmer was no stranger to the cold winds of Svithjod but usually in the context of labor that took one’s mind off the temperature. Still, he thought while putting a hand to the purse tied to his belt, at least dad sent me off with some silver.

The great hall of Uppsala grew more imposing as Povel approached it. He looked at the building with awe, remembering the stories his father used to tell him of brave warriors who gathered in halls such as this. His awed joy turned to seriousness however when this memory reminded him of his purpose: to be one of those warriors. It had become an increasingly common job as harvests fell short in other villages similar to Povel’s. Despite a longing for finding treasure and glory while fighting in exotic lands, the young man was not here to follow his dreams. He knew that if he couldn’t find work soon, he would starve.

The door to the hall cautiously creaked open as the young commoner stepped inside, unprepared for the merriment within. Warmth, both literal and figurative, filled the hall. Men sang and joked as ale flowed. A fireplace filled the room with heat in sharp contrast to the bitter cold Povel felt only moments ago. He solemnly weaved his way through some drunken merrymakers to the bar where he ordered an ale. Leaning against a wall, he surveilled the crowd. It was full of men more fierce-looking and muscled than he, but he knew that he had something they did not. He had knowledge of the ways of commoners and a meager life. Being a stern (though starting to soften with drink) farmer, he was sure that he stuck out in a sea of drunken warriors. Taking sips from his mug, he scanned the crowd to learn their ways. For the first time in a long while, Povel felt hopeful.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Einar Eldrson Character Portrait: Cwen of Wessex Character Portrait: Ekkhart Dumont Character Portrait: Vilhjalma Litsdottir Character Portrait: Povel Ulfsson Character Portrait:
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Having already made his offerings at the temple farther up the mountain, Einar was once again playing guest at the great hall that stood at the base. He was awaiting his new traveling companion. She had desired to prepare for her journey up the mount and wished to make her offering personally and in solitude, and Einar was never one to intrude upon another's personal relationship with the gods.
So, as Vilhjalma wandered up the winter trail and paid her respects to the Allfather, Einar was enjoying the pleasures that the local Jarl had the courtesy to provide to all pilgrims.

He was sat on a bench near the hearth in the center of the room, a lovely warrior maiden perched on his lap. The pair had crossed blades at a small competition earlier in the day and had retreated from the dark chill together. She kept up with him in mead horns and was as liberal in tracing her hands along his neck and tattoos as he was in caressing her back and thigh. The pair laughed in general merriment, caught up in the delights of song, drink, and tales, and the boasts of battle as many of the others in the hall were either performing or enjoying as well.

One part of Einar wondered where his companion was and what was taking her so long at the temple, but he knew she was a strong and capable woman. The area in general was hospitable, and nearly impossible to get lost in. He had been here several times and knew it like the back of his hand.
He noted the presence of a game of chance nearby and made a note to see about joining in shortly. A few moments later, his bi-colored eyes noted the presence of a small, meek looking boy watching everyone else. He thought this curious, but his thoughts about everything were quickly dashed away as the maiden on his lap pulled him into a rough kiss before standing and shouting, "I would place my ship on none being able to match this man in a test of strength!"

Einar looked up at her in bewildered wonderment as she made this boast. Such things were common and boasts were especially well received, but he had been preparing to treat her to another test of strength and endurance, not be pulled in to another challenge by the inhabitants of the hall.

Seconds after the maiden's challenge had been shouted, a man clapped Einar on the shoulder. As the Norseman turned, a fist connected with his cheek. Some craven bastard had thought to surprise him and subdue him with a cheap blow. Einar possessed more mettle than that however. He stood to face the man, batting his next swing aside and striking out. He caught his assailant squarely in the jaw. He felt the mandible dislocate as his fist connected and the coward's eyes took on a glassy, dazed look. Einar didn't give the man a chance to recover. He viciously headbutted the man and fully picked him up and threw him across the central fire, and inadvertently sent him into the table the gambling group was seated at.