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# Marine Skarnulf

Story
The Blue Marlin was anchored off a quiet cove when Skarnulf went ashore to buy rope and nails. The market was small and crowded, a mix of sailors, fishermen, and men who thought knives made them important. Skarnulf ignored the noise and selected what he needed with the slow care of someone who did not hurry for anyone.
As he paid the merchant a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Skarnulf did not flinch. He turned his head slightly and saw a broad man with an oily grin and a scar that ran from lip to chin.
“You look familiar,” the man said. “I swear I have seen you fight.”
“Many have,” Skarnulf replied.
The man stepped closer. “Ursulus, right. Little Bear. I won coin on you once. Strong little thing.” He grinned wider. “You owe me a drink.”
“I owe you nothing,” Skarnulf said calmly.
The man’s smile thinned. “You talking back to me.”
Skarnulf met his eyes with steady stillness. “No. I am talking to you.”
The man shoved him. Not hard. Just enough to test whether Skarnulf would bend. “I asked for a drink.”
Skarnulf planted his feet and did not move. “And I refused.”
A few onlookers paused. They smelled a fight. Skarnulf watched the man’s stance, the way he shifted weight to his right foot, the slight tremor in the left hand. A man confident but lazy. A man who thought size replaced skill.
The man leaned in. “Come on, Little Bear. Do not make me teach you manners.”
Skarnulf tilted his head. His voice stayed level. “If you plan to strike me, do it now.”
The man barked a laugh and relaxed for a heartbeat, amused by the absurd calm of his opponent.
That was the opening.
Skarnulf’s hand shot forward like a snapping trap. He struck the just below the ribs with two knuckles, a precise blow that cut breath and strength in the same instant. Before the man could gasp Skarnulf swept his leg, sending him crashing to the ground. He followed with a single punch to the jaw. Clean. Final.
The man lay still, gasping for air.
Skarnulf stepped back and breathed out slowly, as if he had merely finished tying a knot.
The onlookers backed away at once. No one wanted to test a fighter who moved faster than thought.
Skarnulf picked up his bundle of rope and nails, adjusted it under his arm, and walked toward the docks with the same quiet pace as before. His breathing never changed. His expression never shifted.
As he neared the water he murmured to himself, almost amused. “Always wait for the mistake. They always make it.”
The sea breeze brushed his hair. The Blue Marlin waited for him like a promise, and Skarnulf climbed aboard as if nothing at all had happened.

Skarnulf ready for sparring

## Background

Skarnulf was born in the high valleys of the Draknir tribes, a people known for endurance, stubbornness, and an old warrior tradition that valued tenacity above sheer size. He grew up among stone houses and cold winds, learning how to fight long before he learned to write. Draknir children trained with wooden clubs as soon as they could walk. Skarnulf excelled. His compact build gave him balance. His instincts came sharp and quick. He was expected to become a shield bearer for one of the tribal chiefs.

That life ended the day an imperial raiding party tore through his village. They took fighters first, children second, and left the old behind to mourn. Skarnulf was loaded into a cage wagon and dragged south. He fought every step until he was beaten into silence. When he reached the arenas his captors laughed at his size and gave him a mocking name. Ursulus. Little Bear.

They thought he would die quickly. They were wrong.

## Arena Years

The arenas reshaped him into something hard and patient. The crowds loved him because he did not fight like a wild beast. He fought like a hunter. He circled, waiting for a mistake, and exploited it with speed and aggression when it was made. He watched how opponents breathed, how they shifted weight, where they looked when they were afraid. His fights became lessons in controlled violence. Blow by blow he built a reputation that even the overseers respected.

The name Ursulus changed meaning. It no longer meant Little Bear. It became the bear that bit back.

He survived the arenas for years. That was its own kind of curse. The empire does not like fighters who survive too long. They become symbols. So when a crime lord in Luminara purchased his contract, Skarnulf saw it as a kind of escape. Not freedom, but a different cage with wider bars.

## The Crime Lord

The crime lord who bought him was powerful, clever, and calculating. He promised Skarnulf freedom in exchange for years of service, and Skarnulf accepted because it was the closest thing to a choice he had been offered in years. As a bodyguard he lived better than in the arenas. He had a room. He had food. He had moments of stillness.

He protected his employer from rivals, debts, and curses whispered in taverns. He learned to read political tension the same way he had learned to read fighters. Quietly. Patiently. Always watching for the strike he knew would come.

When the crime lord was assassinated the strike came for Skarnulf. The rival faction wanted to erase every trace of the old power, including the freed gladiator who had protected him. Skarnulf ran before they could close the trap. Running did not suit him, but staying meant death.

## The Flight and the Chance Meeting

He fled through the streets of Luminara, hunted by men who knew his skill and feared it. In a narrow alley he collided with two terrified women. For a heartbeat he thought they were another threat. Then he saw the look in their eyes. Not malice. Desperation.

Amaxia braced to fight. Junia clutched a knife with shaking hands. Behind them came the sound of boots and shouts. Behind Skarnulf came the men hunting him.

The alley erupted in chaos. Skarnulf fought like the bear they had named him for. Amaxia fought like a storm that had finally found something to break. Junia fought with fear and resolve in equal measure. When the bodies fell they stood together, panting, covered in dust and sweat and blood. None of them questioned it. They were allies now.

## Escape on the Blue Marlin

Together they reached the docks. Soldiers spread through the streets. Lanterns glowed across the water. The only ship preparing to cast off was a long, narrow vessel with strange beams jutting from the sides. The Blue Marlin. They did not choose it. They leapt aboard because it was there.

Scarnax listened to their story with a fighter’s understanding. He saw the truth in their faces and the danger behind them. He ordered the lines cut and the sails raised. The Blue Marlin slipped into the night and carried all three fugitives farther from the Empire than they had ever imagined.

## Life Aboard the Blue Marlin

Skarnulf expected to feel caged again. Instead he found something close to peace. The crew treated him like a man, not a tool. No overseers barked commands. No crowds roared for blood. He learned the ship slowly, moving with caution until he understood the rhythms of deck and sail.

He became part of the marine fighters, though his style remained distinct. While Amaxia charged into battle like a spear, Skarnulf waited. Watched. Struck at the exact moment that broke the fight open. His patience unnerved some of the crew until they saw how effective it was.

He is protective of Junia in a quiet way. He respects Amaxia because she reminds him of the warriors he grew up among. He follows Scarnax because the man leads without cruelty. For Skarnulf that is rare and precious.

Silvio is like a son to him, though he will not admit it. He has taken the father role Silvio never had, but he does it under the guise of teaching him.

## Personality and Temperament

Skarnulf is short, compact, and strong, with a stance that always seems ready to shift into action. He rarely smiles but when he does it is genuine. His voice is rough, his sentences short. He measures people quickly. He does not trust easily, but once he does, his loyalty is iron.

He carries himself with the calm of someone who has survived too much to waste energy on panic. He enjoys quiet company and dislikes crowds. He sleeps lightly, often with a hand on the haft of his shortsword.

He is not cruel, but he understands violence intimately and uses it without hesitation when needed. He has no patience for cowards, slavers, or anyone who mistakes mercy for weakness.

Exploiting the clumsy attack

## Relationship With Junia and Amaxia

Junia sees him as a guardian. He sees her as someone who deserves protection simply because she chooses healing in a world that rewards harm. He calls her Little Healer. He would kill for her without ceremony, and she patch up his scrapes with surprising gentleness.

Amaxia is his equal in spirit. Their training sessions are half sparring, half argument, half mutual respect. They never admit it, but they understand each other more deeply than either will voice. They trust each other with their backs and have no need to explain why.

Together the three of them are a strange family built from battles shared and nightmares survived.

## Roleplaying Notes

Skarnulf speaks rarely. When he does, the words are simple and weighed. He watches before acting. He reacts with sudden speed when danger appears. He chooses seats with a clear line of sight. He helps without being asked but pretends it is nothing.

He is a quiet storm contained in a compact frame, a fighter who learned long ago that survival comes from patience, not rage. The Blue Marlin gave him something he never had before. A place where he could fight for more than spectacle. A place where he could be more than Ursulus the Little Bear. A place where he could be Skarnulf again.

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