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Of common, albeit healthy stock, Agnarr tired of work on the farm and sought to relieve his family of the burden of his appetite, as well as strike out on his own. He stole away in the night with one of the farmstead's felling axes, offering service as a caravan hand - and eventually that grew to caravan guard, until he'd earned enough coin to purchase a proper panoply for himself. With a fair amount of experience underneath his (surprisingly trim) belt, he seeks work rather more in the southern reaches.

Nothing about this northern-blooded fellow indicates his growth is not a natural one : Agnarr's physique is broad, but not overdeveloped, with strong thews and symmetrical proportions. Standing above six and a half feet, and typically augmented by a helm and thick boots, his bearing is difficult not to notice. His face isn't quite as attention-catching; his straight nose bears a notch of a scar, his jaw juts slightly, but otherwise his mien is long and solemn, save for his pale eyes that tend far more towards grays rather than blues in the light. His crown is dusted with neatly-trimmed locks of an unremarkable blond, but his equally-groomed beard veers more towards the reds of hair color. Overall, he maintains a well-kept appearance, with his nails filed regularly, his teeth picked free of leftovers, his battle-scars kept covered more often than not, presenting an image of stalwart health - or alternatively, a form of advertisment for the trade he plies. {w({nHe's got a few plaits woven into his beard in a northern fashion.{w){n

Generally taciturn and seemingly devoid of a sense of humor, Agnarr keeps largely to himself, at least on the surface, pragmatically earning his coin through the profession of arms. He expresses a deep faith in the spirits and an unyielding nature: his appearance is apt, considering his temperament.