Fífl the Fleet

Fífl the Fleet

Biographical information

Birthplace The Lost Isles Born Died Age 22 Home Sexuality Pronouns

Physical description

Race Nordwiir/Kaldurhrafn Sub-Race Gender Female Height 6' 2"/29in Mass 155lbs/3.4lbs Hair color Eye color Brown/Black Skin color White/Please do not pluck

Political information

Affiliation(s) Occupation Clan(s) Caste Domain Masters Apprentices Alias(es)

Out-of-character information

Writer Louise Created on 27/05/24 Avatar Midjourney AI

Like most Nordwiir, Fífl covers the bases of being tall and pale.

However, unlike most of her people, she lacks the distinct grizzled nature that afflicts them. Of course, she bears all the small nicks that come from life in such an inhospitable environment but lacks the scars of self-mutilation common amongst the Nordwiir, seeing the act as an absurd practice that proves the collective brain damage of her kin.

Her face is striking, mainly due to the contrast of pale flesh against black hair, with a splash of colour coming from red windburnt cheeks.

Fífl has a slender figure with lengthy limbs that could, at times, be described as awkward. One might consider her elegant when standing still, but when moving, she is more of a clumsy disaster. Limbs aside, the rest of her frame errs on the narrow side and is not particularly shapely.

In her kaldurhrafn shape, she is unremarkable from other frost ravens. She has black plumage and a wedged tail, a thick black bill, and grey legs. However, she is a touch larger than the average kaldurhrafn.

If Nordwiir patron saints existed, Fífl would hold patronage over the frivolous.

As a person, she is playful and flippant to a fault, choosing to shun the grim reality of her people and instead embrace what little joy can be scavenged upon Eyjarnar. Amongst her kin, her upbeat nature is often mistaken for lunacy. Still, in return, she considers her fellow Wiir to be depressing, small-minded and stuck in a perpetual cycle of miserable death. Because of this, Fífl feels an internal sense of smug superiority, quietly considering herself above the Wiir-eat-Wiir world that she inhabits.

It also comes as no surprise that she is quite a selfish individual, more focused on her individual wants and needs than the collective. Since her blessing is of great use to those around her, she is more than happy to do favours, but only in exchange for payment and never for the good of her people or out of obligation.

She is also, as one might suspect, a flighty sort. Fífl never likes to stay in one place for too long, opting to explore the world around her solo to her heart’s content. Naturally, this wanderlust goes hand-in-hand with a natural curiosity for the realms beyond home, where the

Like most Nordwiir, Fífl has attained her Gjöf, known in the common tongue as her Nordwiir blessing.

Her God-given ability allows her to change shape at will into the form of a kaldurhrafn, or a frost raven, a large black corvid native to The Lost Isles. While in this form, Fífl retains full sentient consciousness but otherwise takes on all other forms of a bird. This means that alongside the boons of avian sight, being able to fly, and the ability to consume foods she would otherwise be unable to eat as a Nordwiir, she cannot communicate beyond the gurgling croaks, clicks and gwahs of the frost raven and is physically fragile.

Any injuries sustained in either form will carry over to her chosen shape, meaning a broken arm would still be a broken wing. This makes it less an ability for combat and more an ability for utility, allowing her to travel as freely as the tundra winds allow. Quite often, she is relegated to messenger. She does not retain clothing when she shifts, a minor inconvenience for a woman with little shame.

As a person, she is not a graceful sort. Her clumsy nature and lack of interest in Nordwiir affairs mean that she is not a strong combatant. Some aspects of the kaldurhrafn have, however, transferred over into her Wiir shape. Fífl has a keen eye and a greater range of sight and hearing than average, but as a drawback, she is physically quite brittle.

Fífl hails from a small nomadic band of Spotta worshippers from the northern mountains of Aðal, the largest island on Eyjarnar.

They were an odd bunch, an eclectic group of Nordwiir who shunned the more commonly worshipped Gods in the pantheon to follow the will of Spotta, the God of Misfortune. They did not hold the common distrust of a God with such a domain, accepting that misfortune was just another facet of life, inescapable and inevitable.

Her people’s adaptation to the rugged terrain of the mountains granted her a more peaceful upbringing than most, but not one entirely removed from strife. Instead of contending with the ever-churning conflict between the Nordwiir, Fífl’s upbringing was wholly based on surviving an inhospitable environment.

Often roaming the jagged mountains, her childhood and adolescence were marked by the constant hunt for the next meal and avoiding becoming something else's. It was a culture of nature and survival, and through her Klanið, she obtained all the vital knowledge she needed to survive. Finding shelter, water, and food that was not poisonous was the way of life, and while not the most miserable experience on The Lost Isles, it certainly did not fill her heart with joy.

When Fífl turned sixteen, she, like most other Nordwiir before her, had to face her Frábærveiði, The Great Hunt, the foundational Wiir ritual where they obtain their blessing from the Gods.

Reluctantly, she ventured out alone through the treacherous wind-carved mountain paths to find her chosen quarry. Or, more accurately, until her quarry found her. The young Fífl was confronted by a rampaging belg, a bipedal horned beast known to roam the mountains.

Armed only with a short axe and hide shield, she fled the monster instead, stumbling through the challenging terrain with the belg hot on her heels. She tried in vain to lose the beast, ditching her arms, dodging behind boulders and hiding in various caves in an attempt to bamboozle the belg, but found no relief from what had now become her hunter.

After hours and no end in sight to the tenacity of the belg, Fífl eventually found herself cornered at the edge of an abrupt cliff. Scraped, bruised and exhausted, she faced the extremely realistic outcome of becoming a well-earned snack for the beast.

She peered down the steep drop to see if there was perhaps a way to climb down, but she could see no footholds, only the jagged rocks at the bottom of the fall. However, it wasn’t the only thing the young woman spotted. Her eyes were drawn to a flock of kaldurhrafn gliding into the horizon.

A small prayer to Spotta was offered, imploring them to grant her flight before Fífl took a leap of faith from the mountain cliff.

And Spotta answered.