Obituary: Died a hero, slain in the defense of Arx during the attack by Helena Thornweave in January 1021 AR.

Description: The viciousness in Amund's onyx gaze offsets the classical good looks that he sports. Gifted by the gods with proportionate features and a strong jaw, they can be considered somewhat sharp in profile thanks to the straight bridge of his nose, which is on the pleasant side of long, its tip slightly upturned. His lips curve slightly upward at the corners, giving his expressions a slight mischievous affectation for all that he does not seem to be prone to smiles. His hair, which is kept long, falls down to his shoulders in an undisciplined wavy cascade in stark contrast to his fair countenance. His build is that of a paragon of physical fitness, speaking of hours upon hours of intense martial training. Marring the man's handsomeness is a thin diagonal scar on his left cheek: dark, rather than angry red, it is likely an old wound acquired in a difficult fight. His voice, when he deigns to speak, is low, gravelly.

Personality: A survivor through and through, Amund is a man of few words. His demeanor is cool and impersonal, and things such as 'honor' and 'glory' are contingent on whether he gets to live another day or not. He's the quintessential sellsword: if he is to do things for the good of all mankind, it better be worth the pay. Then again, he has that thrillseeker's edge to his personality, one that is balanced by an attempt at strategic foreplanning in all things he does, along with a marked hesitation to accept honors over wealth.

Background: Born twenty-five years ago, Amund has learned from an early age that hardship and misery is the staple of living on the frontier with the Everwinter. The months of famine would bring sickness, the sickness would bring death. His parents fastidiously thought to spare him the worst parts, often to their own detriment.

One night, a band of aggressive shavs took the village by storm. The emaciated villagers fought their best, but ultimately they could not stop the wave of violence that would see babies wrenched from mothers' breasts and dashed against walls, fathers put to the sword and mothers speared through their skulls, hanging like ragdolls in the winter snows.

The boy, barely twelve, wasn't noticed from his perch on the roof of his house. With nowhere to go, he was forced to fend for himself. Out in the wilds he set out to avoid bands of raiders, foraging what he could from the woods until he found shelter in the next village. After a month of slow and painful recovery from frost exposure, he was nursed back to health and taken in by the village's mayor as a ward.

Eventually he became part of the watchers of the town, trained in the sword and the axe before a band of sellswords showed up in town and, after saying his goodbyes to these Whitehold-affiliated villagers, he signed up with them.

Their fight against the shav'arvani became ever more violent after he was recruited. Whereas the lieutenants would have consternation for his methods, they couldn't deny that they were effective. Slowly he crawled up the ranks until he made it to Lieutenant. When the general of the company died from a fever, the company disbanded. He became a Champion in ducal courts, his style a favorite of Northern nobles for its sheer ferocity and his disregard for the opponents' safety. If the fight ended in one blow and the opponent lived, then it didn't matter if it was a stab to the gut or a sliced vein that did it. His money was earned, win or lose, and it was time to part ways.

But that, too, became a boring endeavor. But the opportunity for money rose again when lord after lord would call for free swords to fight for them in the Silent War. And fight he did. There may have been unspeakable horrors in the line of battle, but he resolutely pressed on and took the fight to them. His remarkable versatility helped make himself quite the name in the field of battle. Once the battle was joined, win or lose, he gave his best; consummate professional that he is, the outcome didn't matter so much as the payment. If the bands of shav'arvani aligned with the Silence were slaughtered to a man, who cared? Moreover, there were times he sought out these tribes in diversion, intent on bleeding their numbers dry.

Once again, in the Gyre War, Amund distinguished himself with a seasonal contract with the Setarco military. For those battles, he proved himself gritty enough to be offered a renewal of his contract by a serjeant, which he declined.

The lure of fighting against shav'arvani drew him to Arx. So he packed his bags, hoping for business that marries his hatred for the Abandoned with a desire for new thrills.

Relationship Summary

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