Ivar Crowe, the Warrior Chief
Ivar was a tall man, who strength, ingenuity, courage and wisdom had governed the people of the Marish for almost two and a half decades. The lower half of his face was masked by a bright auburn beard, carefully combed, braided and scented like pine needles. His hair once spanned down to his shoulders, but now the red locks were cut monthly to stay near his ears, apart from a single braided strand.
Muscles were encased in a suit of leathers and furs, his massive feet wearing heavy boots perfect for the hilled forests and plains his people called home. His hands were pale, calloused, and tough when they needed to be, otherwise, they were gentle, and steady. Upon his back, held in a leather brace, was a massive battle ax, that looked too heavy for anyone but the strongest and most worthy to be able to lift.
Remarkable as the rest of his appearance was, what most people noticed first were his eyes. They were as deep as two cool turquoise ponds on a clear autumn day. They stared right into the souls of his friends, strangers and his enemies. Around his eyes were laughter lines, and while his cracked lips rarely twisted into a smile, his eyes would light up as soon as he saw someone he enjoyed being around came into their view.