Rägnar is an imposing figure. When he isn't fighting with others (which is quite weird), he can be seen with rudimentary leather clothing, most of it still having the animal's head with it, which he sometimes uses to cover himself if ever in need (For example, if it rains or snows). He's obviously physically fit, his muscles are very clear and he has broad shoulders. He usually ties his hair so it doesn't bother him while fighting, a very long and thick beard making him look even more savage than he actually is. His skin is pale as well as his body being unusually hairy and naturally more muscular. His eyes are a mix of brown with a tint of yellow, accompanied by bushy eyebrows. He wears his warhammer on a makeshift holster on his back and his two handaxes on both sides of his hips, strung over and secured by a belt.

Rägnar was born in the middle of nowhere, his mother giving birth to him in a wooden shack near a big forest, his father having left his mother pregnant, left a couple of weeks after the boy was born up in the northern wastes. Lulliana, Rägnar's mother, spent most of the time tending to the little farm beside the forest, which they used to feed themselves and rarely sell to passing merchants who were clearly delighted to see such a young and energetic kid be so interested in chatting up with travelers. Having been outcasted and exiled, his mother taught him all the nature had to offer and what the Gods did for them: How Lopñó cried so the rivers could give life, or how Mïeìro kissed Jukle, the sweetness of their lovemaking the pure air of the wilderness and their animals.

All of that magical infancy had to end when a bandit tribe came too close to comfort to their house, the merchants usually getting shackled for their money or captured, to be later sold as slaves or servants to a higher lord. Rägnar was 16 at that time, watching how his mother had to leave the house for a few days, later coming back with visible bruises and not in the mood to talk, starting to become more and more depressed. One day, coming back from some days of hunting, he found a bunch of the raiders waiting outside his house, seeing as their dragged his mother out of the door, exchanging her among themselves for their pleasure.

He knew he had to run, his mother even told him in case anything to her happened - but he didn't do any of that, the rage and anger were too much to handle, and so, with his hunting bow and knife, attempted to make the men pay for what they had done. Psshh, an arrow flew from his bow, sticking itself into the side of the head of a raider, the rest of them looking at their dead comrade before another arrow flew past the "leader" of the small group, penetrating another man's back, falling to the ground in agony as the remaining two looked around: They saw nothing, the forest too thick to look trough and too silent to detect anyone. They ran, ran to get more reinforcements as Rägnar got out of the bush he was hiding in, running towards his mother in shock. "Run R-Rägnar...do not be afraid of me, for I will live with Höir, the mother of all, always watching you..." she whispered to him, in an attempt to calm her son "My little boy...don't look back a-and make the most out of all...". But it was obvious that the now enraged and blood-lusted lad was not going to follow his mother's advise - his savage and sickly genes only asking for more and more bloodshed, revenge, the need for killing grew on him for days and days of travelling and following the bandits footsteps to the small camp they had set up at a crossroad.

The rest, as they say, is history - but that is how he became known as Ironhide, as numerous travelers and merchants observed how a taller-than-normal northener endured the arrows that were sticking to his body, persecuting the remaining survivors of the small bandit camp, after burning it down to the ground and razing it. As much as Rägnar didn't want to admit it, he was not like Lulliana at all: he had more of his so-called father that anyone knew, and that got mixed with the hatred of the outside world and the search for glory and fame that plagued his dreams and most horrific fantasies...he did not want to be a nobleman as lots of people dreamed of becoming, he preferred to be known - and, is it too much to ask for all? Is it too much to ask to become both feared and known across the Kingdoms?

-- Pure Strength
Although not as enduring or brute as his father's kin, Rägnar is still known to crack a few heads with his bare knuckles and imposing size. Years and years of living in the wilderness have made him have a body most people only seem to notice when they think about Heroes about to rescue princesses, or when they think of Palace Guardsmen at the service of kings and emperors.

You would not want to be stuck in a room with Omegarus, or maybe you would. He had a keen interest in unraveling all the secrets of the known world, even the most forbidden ones due to how much interest they woke up in him. He is not a bad guy per-se, although his cold mentality and strong manipulating personality clearly fit the concept of how "evil" someone is. The man (now, spirit.) rarely uses his own emotions (or lack thereof) to make decisions, mostly doing so in the concept of what he'd gain from it or who it might affect.

Does he purposefully ruin an ally's life just to have a laugh? No, but he will do so - if he gains something - and said ally is no longer useful for him. Having now been stuck with a man who is clearly not interested in knowing about the stars that shine above him, or what hides deep below the surface is surely a hell for Omegarus: although having someone easy to manipulate and with the physical strength that he lacked when he was alive alleviates the pain he feels from that.

A Northman of average height for his kind, which is to say, shorter than compared to normal men, with brown eyes and a sizeable brown beard and hair that reaches to his shoulders. Like his kind he is stocky, but well-toned in his muscles from years of hard labour in the mines. These days, he wears a common linen shirt, cloak and pantaloons, the shirt to better cover the scars from lashings across his back.

Dorian Vadderung was born the son of a poor Northmen household, a family of miners who'd served the Engineer Households for generations as effectively laborers, toiling away in the mines harvesting ore to smelted and crafted into fine works of martial engineering. It was a vital task to hold to feed the vast appetites of the orders Braldurheim was expected to fill, but not so for one with dreams of ambition for it was often a thankless and far less prestigious role.

For from a young age, Dorian had always dreamed of becoming an Engineer, even though his family could not afford to send him through the Academy to get the necessary education and apprenticeship, before he could swing a swing a pickaxe he was watching the work at the immense forges and the great skill with which the artisans honed their craft, and the subsequent respect they were held in. Envy grew in his heart from a young age.

Envy which only grew as he left his household and traveled throughout the realm following the mining jobs, as his father before him had. For what began as only mild and perfectly reasonable disgruntlement eventually manifested into outright disdain for the state of affairs, which to many of the more traditional among the Northmen was grounds for reprimanding. Dorian found himself several times beneath the Bailiff's lash for disrupting the work shifts and incitement of conflict among the workers. Not that the lashings did anything but temper his resolve like steel.

As the years went on, Fate extended Dorian a very odd circumstance that would change his life forever.

At the age of 33, Dorian was on his way to a new mining operation that took his path through Braldurheim's heart, the bustling core of the Northmen's Kingdom under the mountains, and seat of many of the more Engineering Academies. The Academies were hosting a public event, a rare thing and usually one that was reserved for showing off new inventions. In this case, it was a contest of sorts. A stone pedestal had been brought out, and upon it stood a roughly carved iron ring with runes carved upon it. The contest was simple, they claimed, whoever could lift the ring up and onto one of their fingers without it breaking their hand would win it along with having their name publicly declared as the strongest Northman in Braldurheim. The trick being that despite its appearance, the ring was apparently of enormous weight and while not strictly being magically, the Engineers had become dumbfounded as to its properties, and was useless to them for any practical purpose, so they were using it as a means to create a friendly competition to raise money for some renovation of their Academy buildings.

Paying the small fee to try after witnessing numerous individuals struggle to either lift the innocuous looking ring, or breaking the finger that the even fewer managed to lift it onto, Dorian gave it a shot. He had resolved that this was a simple way to set himself apart from the crowd, finally, something that didn't require money or social standing, merely overcoming a challenge through one's strength and will. The ring may as well have weighed as much as a grindstone, but Dorian's strength was prevailing to at least lift the thing up, but before he could attempt to slip the ring onto one of his fingers, a voice as deep and resounding as if the mountains themselves had spoken to him entered his mind.

Had Dorian not been so focused on exerting his strength into lifting the ring, he'd have jumped, none of the others had indicated anything like this, nor the Engineers, and nobody else seemed to have heard it besides him. The voice stated that it had waited a long time for one such as Dorian to find its ring, and that he had scoured Dorian's mind as it had all the others for a worthy pupil. It had seen Dorian's desires to become a great master engineer and to obtain the power and respect he so envied and craved from those in superior positions to him, and expressed a kindred spirit in him, something which the voice said was lacking in so many others in conjunction with the strength to match what its own had once been. The voice made the Northman an offer, pledge itself to be its pupil, and it would grant Dorian what he desired, refusal would result in a broken hand and the loss of any such chance ever coming again, the voice assured in a calm by overwhelmingly absolute manner. Partially delirious from the exertion of strength, but fully realizing the gravity of the situation if the voice was telling the truth, Dorian seized the moment, and gave his mental assent to the voice's conditions.

The ring's weight suddenly shifted in Dorian's grasp, and came to weigh no more than a natural iron one of its kind, and slipping it onto one of his fingers, the voice intoned" I am Vardun, Titan of the Deep, known also as the World-Breaker, and former Siege-Master of the Shadow Legionnaires. And you, Dorian Vadderung, have proven yourself worthy to become my heir. The ring tightened onto his finger as if it physically shrunk, and Dorian would later find that it was impossible to remove. Regardless, there was great commotion at his success, and Dorian was publicly hailed as the strongest Northman in Braldurheim . . . not that this really amounted to much of anything besides the assurance that he'd never be wanting for manual labor jobs, but his name was spread about with both incredulity and praise in equal measure.

But there was little time for Dorian to focus on the matter, no sooner had he been handed the prize money then Vardun began giving him directions, always in his calm but firm demeanor. He commanded the Northman to pay to have a more fitting weapon than a pickaxe forged with the money, and to spend the rest on provisions, they'd be making for the road as soon as the work was done. Dorian, still unsure if Vardun was actually who he claimed to be, was struck by two things, first being a sudden shift in the weight of the ring upon his finger, and second having his head bombarded with knowledge on a blueprint of a pick hammer of precise specifications and directions to the point where he felt confident he could have made it himself, had he merely a forge, tools, and materials and despite never having made anything before. The weight relented, and with it more of Dorian's skepticism.

It took a day for everything to be prepared, and it concluded with Dorian retrieving his newly forged pick hammer. The Titan remarked how while it did not hold a candle to the raw might of the one he once wielded, it would serve for now. Once this was done, the former miner set out on the road, making his way at Vardun's direction and all the while the Titan subjected him to tests and lessons as was their bargain. And while he is at times resentful the harshness of his teacher and questions the Titan's motives, Dorian was pleased with the situation, nowhere else might he have obtained such a chance to wield such power and learn such things from any Academy, and while he didn't at the time know where the path would lead, he knew he'd never go back to slaving away his life in order to eke out his existence. He had tasted power and the chance to make his life the way he would choose to, not by the circumstances of his birth. He wanted to stand as resolute in purpose and powerful in mind and body as the Titan once did, and while the irony was not lost on either of them of the situation of a Northman attempting to emulate a giant of a man, such things did not matter so long as Dorian had the will to seek it.

A ring of what appears to be solid iron, craved with runes upon its surface. Its actual weight far exceeds its appearance, with the Engineers of Braldurheim suspecting that it must have been made of far heavier metal than iron.

Calm and calculating, cold and implacable as a mountain when he sets his mind to a task, Vardun casts a shadow in his un-death as tall as the one he walked in life. Far less prone to anger than some of his fellow Legionnaires, the giant of a man rarely needed to draw upon his rage for strength when his colossal power only grew upon his dark ascension. Instead he's a far more grim and absolute presence then as he is now, bringing to mind images of ironclad will and resolve, and the dark but ever-present calm of the void, saving his thunderous battle-cries to the last as he knew his presence alone inspired fear and trepidation. As the former Siege-Master of the Shadow Legion, he carried this mindset with him there, bearing the calm and terrible assurance that no defense, no matter how mighty, would stand against him forever.

He views that only one worthy of being his equal in all respects should be the heir to his power and knowledge, seeing little room for kindness or mercy in a world which had granted him little unless rightly earned through one's own will and might. Thus is his philosophy, and one which governs his relationship with Dorian as more his drill sergeant as much as his teacher.

What Matty looks like depends on how close you are to him. From a distance, and if he's standing still, he might look like a pile of dirty, tattered rags. His 'wardrobe' is made up of more layers of clothing than he can count, all of it well-worn and stolen from unattended laundry lines and sleeping drunks with little care for how well it actually fits Matty's tiny frame. It serves as both protection from the elements and a bizarre sort of urban camouflage.

Closer up, it's easier to see the dirty human boy inside all the rags. Matty would be small for his age even if he wasn't malnourished, and his green eyes look particularly large and bright sticking out of his dirty, pale, gaunt face.

Any attempt to get any closer to Matty would cause the child to scamper away, vanishing into the alleyways of Dawnguard that he knows better than anything else.

Matty's story is short and sad. Once upon a time, he had parents, probably. He never knew them, personally, and probably wouldn't have cared for them if he had. They died, and Matty was left alone, and that's how things have been ever since. Story over.

But, to expand just a little: Matty grew up hard and fast in Dawnguard, the capital city of the Vahkranite Imperium, that gilded bastion of order and power in the big reeking shitball that was the Third Age. At least, the only people that actually think that are the lucky fucks who never had to live there.

No matter what grand speeches the king makes about 'spreading peace' or whatever the hell else he's smoking, at the end of the day a city is just a whole bunch of people trying to get by. And in Dawnguard, where all the vaunted wealth and plenty of the Vahkranite flows from the king to his fat coterie of nobles and his massive, bloated armies, it takes a lot to 'get by'.

Matty is part of that population of unmentionables that always lurks just out of sight. The forgotten and forsaken. Former soldiers missing their arms, legs, and wits. Unlucky whores, scratching at rashes that never go away. Addled drunks and addicts, wandering in search of just one more fix, just one. And then there's people like Matty: the orphans, the urchins, the street rats. Orphaned by any one of a dozen wars, or plagues, or just pure bad luck, they're the ones that scrabble hopelessly at the scraps and leftovers, struggling to survive because they don't know how to do anything else.

It's the only life that Matty's ever known, and he's never thought of anything else. Except recently. Recently he's pretty sure he's gone crazy, because there's a man living in his head. And that man is probably more than a few cards short of a full deck, too. Goes on and on about him being the heir to the Shadow Legions or some shite, and that he has to "tear the world down" or something like that. But that's probably normal for crazy head-voices; Matty's met plenty of crazies in his time, and ain't none of them ever had a voice in their head that was just plain friendly. What's up with that, yeah?

Once upon a time, the totem that carries Armsael's soul was a beautiful sword, the masterpiece of one of the greatest craftsmen of the First Age. It was the sword that he carried at his hip as his thrall armies marched on the Nexus, their every step, every breath taken at his command. Time has... it hasn't been kind.

In the First Age, Armsael's deeds earned him titles and renown in equal measure. He was King Armsael the Absolute. Armsael, the Crown Thief. The Pretender. The Usurper. The Thrall-King. In the final battle of the First Age, when the Shadow Legion marched on the Nexus, the largest army on the field flew Armsael's banner and sang his praises, even as they killed and died in droves.

In the Third Age, Armsael is mostly called "Arms, the man who lives in my head an' complains a lot".

Humiliating? Oh, yes. Very.

Compared to his brothers and sisters in the Shadow Legion, Armsael has drawn the shortest possible straw in terms of vessels: a simple street rat, without a thought in his head that isn't focused on where his next meal is coming from. A boy swaddled in rags, using his once-beautiful sword to cut purse-strings. Once, the stupid brat caught a rat and ate it, raw. He was sick for a week, and Armsael laughed the whole time.

Does Armsael hate Matty? Oh, he loathes the boy. But would he take a different vessel, given the chance?

No, probably not.

Truth be told, he sees his partnership with Matty as a challenge to overcome. A wild horse that only needs a capable rider to break him in. On his own, Matty would be content to spend the rest of his short life scrabbling in the dirt, and after his death, not even the rats would remember him after picking his corpse clean. But with Armsael - King of Kings, Dominatus, He-Whose-Thoughts-Bend-Others-To-His-Will (it sounds much better in the Northmen tongue, but humans can't pronounce it without coughing) - at his side, directing him and guiding him, he could be so much more.

Kings will bow at his passing. Lords will grovel at his feet. Peasants will worship him as a god.

And if Matty proves too difficult to control, well... Perhaps Armsael will have to take a more proactive hand in matters.