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Haakov hails from the Muskling tribe, a northern warrior tribe strong of body body and smell. Haakov is unusually large and muscle-bound, even for one from a people renowned for their musculature. Even among his own kind, he is so immense that some whisper that he has more than a little blood of the legendary giant race in him. He has eyes the color of glaciers, and they are always weighing the speediest and messiest way to crush the subject of their observation. His hair and beard are long and blonde and braided in the manner of the warriors of his kind. For Haakov is a warrior!

The Foeskin hails from the grey, frozen wastes of the north, where various kindred tribes have warred amongst themselves since time began. In recent years, however, the Hugling tribe has emerged supreme, and the inhabitants of the fertile southlands have suffered as a result. The soft southrons have encountered the fearsome northerners before, as occasional members of that mighty people have razed many a town and served (and slaughtered) many a pompous magnate, but never in such numbers. Thousands of northerners, either singly or in roving war parties, are streaming south, causing terror wherever they go as they press on the borders of the once-mighty Empire. Whether they are refugees fleeing from the rising power in the north or the vanguard of its advance, none can say. All that is certain is that they herald a coming storm. As for Haakov himself, is he an exile who longs to return home to claim his vengeance, a bondless freebooter, or a scout for his oath-master? Perhaps none or all, for he will not tell. Haakov is tight-lipped, as warriors are wont. For Haakov is a warrior.


Haakov wears no armor aside from a cloak made from the skins of his defeated foes. It is a thick cloak indeed! He also carries no shield and wears only leather straps on his torso above breeches and boots made from the hides of unknown beasts undoubtedly slain by his own hand. Much of his exposed skin is smeared in red with no discernible design, though whether it be war paint, crude tattoos, or dried blood, none dare ask. Haakov himself has forgotten, for he is a warrior.

His weapon is a broadsword so great that lesser men (and elves; all of them, not just the lesser ones) would struggle to wield as a two-handed greatsword. For Haakov, though, it is little more than a puny twig dangling at his left hip. A long dirk that hangs at his right hip, where it is handy for close encounters. Make no mistake, though -- Haakov is not choosy about his weapons. He uses whatever is close at hand to deal death, be it rock, tree, furniture, foe-man, corpse, or ally. He is also constantly searching for a larger, messier weapon that will create even more of the carnage in which he revels. Because Haakov is a warrior.

Haakov is a warrior. He has a warrior's personality. He speaks rarely but drinks often. His mirth, when aroused, is dangerous for all present. His rages are more frequent and even more deadly. He distrusts magic and sorcery, and he has nothing but disdain for those who deal with foes other than through the strength of their arms. He does not pray or speak of gods, but his mutilates his foes partly in silent offering to Hslaava Slaveslayer, the Lord of Naked Fury, and Vaktoth Hard-ore, the Lord of Angry Steel. Those grim, grey gods are a warrior's gods for, lest you forget, Haakov is a warrior.


Haakov offers the lives of Rupert and five other hirelings to Hslaava Slaveslayer, the Lord of Naked Fury in exchange for his life. Hslaava is pleased and believes Haakov will prove to be among the greatest of his sons.

  • Rupert is dead, killed in battle by Rinnick's hand.