Not the best of character sheets, but the best I can do with my current schedule!
Name: Herraud Oddar Oddarsson.
Chapter of Origin: Space Wolves.
Type of Marine: Long Fang - Battle Brother.
Personality: Guarded, superstitious and quiet - Herraud Oddarsson is a traditionalist to the boot. Whilst many of the Space Wolves' older traditions have been lost to time, Herraud seeks to revive them - Indeed, his fright-mask is archaic, as are his beliefs. Particularly distasteful and distrustful of witchery, Oddarsson actively seeks to avoid contact with psykers, going as far to curse their presence, existence and well-being. Being called Space Wolf, to Oddarsson, is an insult - He is a member of the Rout, one of the vaunted Vlka Fenryka, and is fiercely proud of his roots. Nonetheless, the Gothic name persists, something which Oddarsson has vowed, in his time amongst the Chapter, will come to an end. Traditions must be safeguarded, upheld and taught to future generations, and Oddarsson has took it upon himself to do so.
Physical Appearance: Tall and lean, his body sheathed in layer upon layer of corded muscle, Oddarsson is truly a terrifying sight. His eyes are black-centered gold - The eyes of an apex predator - Depthless and intelligent. His mouth and nose are noticeably elongated, into a snout, and his mouth - Framed by thin, leathery lips - Is full of sharpened fangs. He wears his beard and hair long, oiled, waxed and braided - The colour of a thundercloud; black, streaked with grey. All of this he conceals, beneath a fright-mask of knotted and lacquered leather - Heavy eyelids, a pair of wolves racing up his cheeks and curling, around his eyes and onto his brow, all dyed a reddish-brown with the blood of a bull saeneyti.
His armour is an old Mark VI set, largely unadorned and unembellished, though Oddarsson wears a great, heavy pelt about his pauldrons - A Fenrisian wolf, one of Oddarsson's first kills. It stinks of smoke and blood, musky and cloying - A scent which many, perhaps, would find unpleasant. To Oddarsson, however, it is aromatic and comforting - A memento mori to distant Fenris. Dangling from his neck are two necklaces - One a wolf's-tail, for aversion to maleficarum, the other grimmer and more menacing - Finger-bones, unmistakably those of a transhuman. Carved over the right eyepiece, by Oddarsson's own hand, is the rune for wealth - Fe - Said to bring the wearer great riches. Oddarsson doesn't particularly believe so - He just likes the way it looks.
Background: Born of Fenris, of Fire and Ice, Oddarsson remembers little of his life before ascendance. His memories are clouded - A burning village, littered with dead, a sea running red with blood, bubbling and furious, the feel of an axe in his hands, and clearer than all, a grey giant standing above him, grinning hungrily. These were his dread beginnings, his youth poisoned by butchery and his life stolen by a spear. Dead, Oddarsson believed himself, but that was not to be - He awoke on a cold slab, his body sore and scarred. He had become Vlka Fenryka.
Oddarsson, like so many others in the Space Wolves, struggled with the Curse of the Wulfen. His dreams were haunted by fleeting, phantom wolves - Padding and slavering at the edge of his vision, just out of reach, with their glowing, black-pinned eyes. His years as a Blood Claw, some twenty, were blood-drunk and wild, and Oddarsson recalls little - Cares little - For those times. His lessons were learnt, his hand was dealt and his scars earned. That is all that matters to Oddarsson, now.
He has served in the Great Company of Bran Redmaw, faithfully, since his first donning of the armour. Over two hundred years of ruthlessness, determination and dedication - In the name of the Allfather, and his Lord, Bran Redmaw. On Iphixia, he fought against the Orks, planting his legs wide in a choke-hold, and hewed down nearly forty of the beasts - Before being forced back, lathered in blood - Both his own and that of the Greenskins. On Jemukah, where the sands glow scarlet in the light of a dying sun, Oddarsson boarded a Dark Eldar flier; butchering the crew before crashing it into the sands. Reckless, many would say - Others would call it heroic. On a hundred worlds, perhaps a thousand, Oddarsson has reddened the soil with blood, frenzied and bloodthirsty - A beserker of old. His status as a Long Fang, one of the hallowed veterans of the Space Wolves, is what led him to volunteer for a rotation with the Deathwatch - To murder-make, to bring the Allfather's light to those who would shy away from it.
Weapons: A two-handed power-axe, encrusted with runes, Grimhilda. A smaller, unadorned hand-axe, in lieu of a combat blade, and a bolter and bolt-pistol.
Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.
"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"
'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'