[WIP]
* Name: Hrafn Eiriksson
* Called: Hrafn 'Long-Memory', 'Many-Tongues'

Description:

Hrafn is an enormous man, built less like a nobleman and more like someone who has spent his entire life rowing ships, hauling nets, swinging axes and carrying things that ought to require two men. He stands broad and heavy through the shoulders, with a thick neck, massive chest, powerful arms and forearms, and a deep, heavily muscled torso.

His physique is dense rather than sculpted, a practical strength accumulated over decades of hard living. Even at rest, there is something imposing about the sheer amount of him.

His skin is weathered by wind, sun and salt, marked here and there by old scars beneath an almost continuous web of tattoos. His arms, shoulders and upper chest are covered in intricate Norse designs: ravens, serpents, knot work, ships, wolves, runes and scenes that seem to overlap into one sprawling personal saga. Some ink is faded with age, while newer markings stand dark against his skin. They give his already formidable physique an almost storybook quality, as though his body itself has been turned into a record of the life he has lived.

His salt-and-pepper hair is shaved close at the sides, leaving the longer hair atop his head swept back and gathered into thick braids. Silver is becoming increasingly prominent among the dark strands. His beard is equally heavy and full, dark at its roots and heavily streaked with grey, usually braided or bound near the ends.

Despite his rugged appearance, it is clearly cared for; Hrafn takes pride in looking like a formidable man rather than a feral one.

His face is broad and weathered, with a strong jaw, heavy brows and a nose that has clearly been broken at least once. His eyes are pale sea-glass green, striking against his darker complexion, and remarkably alert beneath his intimidating brow. They have the unsettling quality of seeming to notice everything.

Then there is his smile.

Broad, crooked and devastatingly confident, it transforms an otherwise severe face into something warm, charismatic and faintly dangerous. It is the smile of a man who knows exactly how imposing he looks and has long since learned how useful that can be.

He dresses practically: heavy leather, fur, belts and worn metal fittings, leaving much of his tattooed arms and chest visible when the weather permits. A collection of rings, bracelets and old pieces of Norse jewellery add a little ornamentation without diminishing the sense that everything he wears has been used rather than merely displayed.

He smells strongly of spirits, tobacco smoke, leather, sweat and woodsmoke. All are seemingly worked permanently into his clothes, beard and hair. It is the unmistakable scent of a man who has spent rather too many evenings in taverns and around campfires, usually with a drink in one hand and a pipe in the other.

For all his imposing bulk, there is an unexpected intelligence in the way he carries himself. He is a skald, and his remarkable memory means he has no need for books or written records. His tattoos mark his past; his mind remembers the rest. He notices faces, names, gestures and conversations, storing away details with an almost unnerving precision.