Tristan is a tall and muscular young man of a tanned, dark-copper-like, skin color. His body is adorned with various tattoos, some are common symbols used among many Shieldites: ones symbolizing Gods or special events that they partake in, other ones are more specific and directly related to specific regions or Jarldom's. On Tristan's body there are two such symbols. On his chest he has the head of an auroch facing forward and on his dominant arm he has a symbol of a hammer with two crows beside it facing away.
The sides of his face are shaved and he has long brown hair, usually braided behind his head.
He wears a thick rustic scale armor, made up of various pieces of leather, scales and metal rivets that hold it together. On his back he has a thick dark leather cloak that is rustic in nature and sports a hood which typically hangs behind his back. Sticking out from besides his cloak is a broad leather strap that goes across his chest with two metal hooks that sit behind his shoulder, where the cross-guard of his two handed sword is placed and a short sheath near the end of a long and thick leather strap that holds the tip of the blade.
 
My name is Tristan Unfridson, I am the son of the former Jarl Unfrid and the famed shield-maiden Frida.
 
My father’s blood carries with it a sense of honor and respect, though some mistook that as a sign of weakness. It is said that he was once a great warrior whose presence alone was enough to prevent bloodshed, but as the years passed his temperament became mild, as did his blade's edge. Some men began to question his competence to lead, specially after I was sent to ward with a powerful neighboring Jarl to help maintain peace between the two Jarldoms.
 
Frida is my mother's name, one well-known throughout the Shieldlands. She is a famed shield-maiden, known for her combat ability and her piercing singing amidst battlefields. There is a saying about shield-maidens: “When a maiden sings true, warriors weep in red”. Frida made a lot of men weep. Last I heard of her, she and my sister Hannah left the Jarldom after I was surrendered to Jarl Gudrun.
 
When Hannah, my younger sister, was born she brought new life to our family. She was as bright and energetic as her bright blond hair and a mean swing with a blade, definitely taking after her mother. As young children we would read legends of old heroes and pretend we were them, running on the hills in search of legendary creatures, but once I reached the age of five I had to put her aside and focus on my studies to succeed my father as a Jarl. She resented me and our father for it, with good reason, but now that I'm far from home I regret the times I had to brush her aside to study. Hannah may never forgive me but I resent every moment we didn't spend together and I still love her dearly.
 
Shortly after Hannah began to read, a dispute between my father and Jarl Gudrun was settled with a peace agreement and me being sent to his land as a Ward, or hostage, as some would call it. That day was the last one I saw my family together. I still remember the disdain in my mother's face, the embarrassment my father's men felt and the tears on Hanna's face as I stood beside Gudrun and my father, the once feared warrior, bowed before him as I was taken away.
 
Though I grew up in the mountains where the air is thin, the animals are plentiful and the breeze is calm, in Gudrun’s land, near the sea, the air is heavy and warm and most our meat comes from fish near the shores. As a ward to him I was kept fed and safe, attended to the Jarl’s meetings and trained with the rest of his warriors and sons. Far better than any hostage has a right to be treated.
 
Back home things were not as peaceful. Though my father had kept our lands safe and the people fed, a name only carries as much weight as the number of those that would kneel before it. After surrendering me, his men began to question his ability to lead and one of them decided to challenge my father to a duel for the title of Jarl.
 
It is hard for me to believe that the man who was besides my father the longest, one who witnessed my birth and years later taught me to hold my first blade, would be the one to defeat my father, carve him into a gruesome Blood Eagle tribute and take his place as the new Jarl. No God will take the fate that is reserved for that man but one day I will be ready to face him. I pray that Tjorvi guides my blade when it comes.
After my father’s passing, and my worth to him faded, Jarl Gudrun still treated me as one of his own. I know that some people called that into question, but his stern and unrelenting attitude kept his men in check. I just hope that the kindness he showed me isn't mistaken for weakness. I would hate for him to suffer the same fate that befell my father.
 
These lands are lacking in kindness but they have no room for the weak.