This is a rough backstory for my main character, the nord berserker Tor Blackforge. This is basicly up to when Skyrim begins. Tell me how I might improve plx. Even ideas to add to his story are welcome.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wulfgor Blackforge. A name remembered in Skyrim only for the brutality and hardships he inflicted on his serfs. A thane of an inhospitable northern stronghold, he claimed to be a direct descendant of Ysgramor, the first high king. Yet, unlike his noble ancestor, his heart was as black as obsidian. He was responsible for more slaughter and death in his own holds than in the large cities to the south. He was just as likely to go into a bloody rage over an innocent jest as to laugh at it, maybe more so. A man with no compassion for his people, no mercy for his enemies, and no patience for his only son.
Aye, he was my father, if only in name. From the day I was born, I was more squire than son. At the age of ten I was forced to exercise and run alongside soldiers twice my age. I was forced to be their “sparring partner”, which was actually them beating me with clubs for sport. But I endured, and began to shape myself into the warrior I knew I would have to be. At eighteen I was just as fast and strong as one of the men with ten years more combat experience. But was my father pleased? No! He saw me grow in strength and confidence and sought to put me in my “place.” The next time I was called to spar with the mercenaries, they drew real swords and axes. I could see in their eyes that they were out for blood.
But the spawn of Ysgramor’s blood would not be so easily defeated. As I lay bleeding from a strong blow, the world seemed to warp. A red rage took me, obscuring my sanity. When I gained control of myself, the mercenaries were but chunks of red flesh for the dogs to dine on. I held two axes tightly in my fists, the edges dyed crimson.
I then saw him there, silent with a knowing look on his face. The rage began to build again. He was testing me. How dare he manipulate me in such a way! His expression turned from one of knowing to shock as his eyes wandered to my hands.
I had not noticed at first, but the axes did not belong to the mercenaries. The ancient gray steel was adorned with symbols of the ancient house of Ysgramor! Though obviously old, the weapons showed no sign of rust or decay, and were well balanced for both swinging and throwing. I’m sure he tortured many of his servants into telling where the weapons had come from, but none knew. Not even I can guess how they came to me, but now I know why.
I knew my father would come for me soon after, so I had already planned my escape. It was good that I did, because the serfs rebelled against him, even the guards and mercenaries. The rebels stormed the keep, burning and killing all in their way. When they finally reached my father’s chamber, they found him lying in a pool of blood. His head was split open by strong blows on each side of his head. I had decided to take revenge for myself, before they strung up his body in front of the keep.
Afterwards, I slipped out of the town and journeyed south, to the Imperial City, where I planned to work as a hired sword. I did not take my axes with me, but hid them in one of my families old tombs for safe keeping. For years I served the Imperials, going on missions for their fighter’s guild and rooting out bandits in the hills. All the while I kept up with news from my homeland, and liked what I heard. The high king was dead, and the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak, was leading a rebellion! Skyrim’s freedom was at hand! I planned to return to my homeland and seek out the Stormcloaks. I would find them, and sooner than I had imagined. No sooner had I crossed over the border, I was arrested.
Comments