Profile of Kjartan

fur the colors of a dead fire; a mix of soot, ash, and sleeping coals. eyes like bright moss. there is a languidness to his stride, a thoughtfulness that carries his body from place to place. perhaps this seemingly quiet, sweet wolf with thunderstorms in his heart, is the most sudden, the most intense of his siblings when those thunderstorms finally build. There is a secret master at play behind his soft gaze; often impervious to the outside world. Though he feels everything, perhaps a little too deeply, it is never quite so obvious in his expression - a slate wiped of everything but the nuances of emotion within him. to the outside world, he is shale and stone, chipped ice and determination. to those he is closest, his smiles and his laughter are well-earned blessings that light up his features; addictive and exclusive in their appearance. Thicker of fur and muscle - an implication of power that whispers from every pore of his skin. though he appears meek, in the true sense of the word - as one who carries a sword and knows how to keep it sheathed. Can speak bits of the languages of the land.

dutiful. quiet. there's something simmering about him; an anger lingering just beneath the skin. A rolling wave crashing to shore. The crippled heart; of moral compasses and heartfelt longing. takes after his father, the unexpected poet. may come off as a charmer, but he truly means the depths of his words. Time spent, time to come, time wasted. A kind of rarity; a gentle-heart in the form of ruggedness. irascible in the face of injustice - the leaking, sneaking temper unfolds its great wings. his heart is full of convictions - the strong needle of a moral compass. the untamed spirit of life. careful but only in movement. reckless otherwise. a beautiful mixture of what was and is now. zealous for living. Pensive and caring; compassionate and meticulous. comfortable and outgoing. the mesh between peaceable and furious, if it's for the right reason. seemingly aloof, but present and constant. his quiet way is less noticeable and more of sand through a sifter; he slips through the cracks and into view. Is often blunt and to the point. Doesn't like to be rolled over. aspires to mend what is broken at any cost. Almost always the underdog but something about him is commanding.

Will always fight for the rights of others, gets frustrated with his sense of justice and the lack of it around him. objectivity and self-control is a must. truth-seeker. Has the potential to be religious and devout. Doesn't always listen to orders. Is naturally distrustful of power. likes to believe and have faith in something greater than himself. hopeful and optimistic at heart beneath the rubble. Kjartan is everything old, fashioned from an era not his own, nor the one before it - he is who he is without apology. similar to a creature of lore - a mountain having awoken from slumber in a new and terrible age. has his family's sense of fealty and undying loyalty, but his trust is hard earned. he is respectable when respectfulness is due. doesn't know when to quit.

T H E N

"You look enough like the rest of this lot."
"For the last time: no."
"Come on Kjar...don't be a fool."
"Oh, aye, insulting me has been so successful in the past."
"Och, youth is wasted on the young."
"Would you just hold still?"
"Listen, m'boy...things will get worse one day, and you could have the chance to do something good."
"You mean die for causes I don't believe in?"
"You're impossible."
"And you're still bleeding."

His history is largely unknown. An orphan, is what the old merc told him. She was haughty, a troublemaker, but a wicked fighter. The first six months of his life was spent trailing after her, tending to her wounds after jobs and grumbling about her poor eyesight and teeth while begging whatever gods existed to let her live forever. He managed to convince her to settle in the Lowlands after a particularly dangerous job left her severely injured. He loaned himself out to several families as a healer, and though they doubted his skill because of his age, they'd soon made a home for themselves among the genteel wolves. Though he held no love for either the side of these political affairs, Kjartan had soon found that he was only partial to one thing: the well-being of others.

It was easy to ignore the pull, at first, almost refusing to attend the college out of spite. The older Myra got, the pushier she became, and he found himself there for a short time. He wasn't a bad student, per say, but he could not make his heart true to the pacifistic nature of these doctors and scholars. He knew himself too well, knew that there was a simmering kind of anger in his belly any time he witnessed an injustice, any time he returned home to Myra or wandered into the poorer areas of the lands. The idea of being some erudite citizen or lauded doctor was starting turn sour. It was Myra who encouraged the idea for him to join the group of wolves she hated most.

"You promise you won't love me less?"
"Shut yer gob, little one and let me look at ye."
"It won't change anything..."
"It will, but not for the worse."
"I'll visit. I'll come back on my down time, I won't leave you for very long, it'll just be-"
"Hush. I'll be fine."

She'd seen him off with a wink and a little nudge; something cunning in the way she met his eye. He hadn't had time to question her about it, or what she was planning. But it didn't matter. It was the last time he'd seen her alive. He returned home after a few months to find their den empty, their neighbors solemn.

"She developed a cough...wouldn't let us send for you."
"She didn't want you to worry, Kjartan."

It had been a long time since he'd been truly alone; the pup that had been orphaned or abandoned didn't remember that awful emptiness. But with Myra gone, something cold slid into his heart; a kind of guilt he couldn't shake, a closure he couldn't get ahold of. He gave their den as a kind of supply store to their neighbors and those citizens they knew would be in need. He keeps it stocked when he can get away from his duties, to honor the memory of the mercenary who raised him.

Now in his second year of life, Kjartan finds himself an adult whose heart is slowly being torn from Royalist, to Jacobite, to the random thief or orphan he comes into contact with. How can anyone just choose one face over another...? Far from being the pacifist that the scholars and doctors of the Lowlands wanted him to be, he finds himself more like a vigilante in this political drama that has long since taken over these lands.

N O W
currently living in Yorkshire, but often returns to the Lowlands to stock his old den with medical supplies for the citizens.