[hider=Hrífa Rat-eater][center][img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/8e/d6/db/8ed6db4818bd47481fad4be6c5e31571.jpg[/img][/center][list][*]Mid to late forties[*]Like black clouds at the edge of the sky, men need only see Hrífa to know he is dangerous, and at least half-mad. His eyes, dull grey, are wild and animal, and they betray the stillness of his tongue; for he speaks seldom, except in selfish little murmurs and mumbles, always seeming to tell himself a story.[*]He was declared a [i]níðingr[/i] many years ago for the practice of witchcraft. He has been accused too of using poisons, a coward's tools, to settle a feud; though they say that about most [url=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sei%C3%B0r][i]seiðmenn[/i][/url].

Before that he was trusty with a spear, and though few songs told of his exploits in battle, even hardy warriors came instinctively to fear the beast which slumbers within that slender body. They've probably heard too many campfire rumors, which are sure to be exaggerated—probably. In any case, the king never bothered to exile him not because he was to be feared, but because he never really hurt anyone; his social ostracism drove him beyond the village, where he delighted himself with masturbation, fishing, and of course, conversation with the [url=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Draugr][i]draugar[/i][/url] and other spirits.[/list][/hider]