A short, yet stout man bred for and tempered by battle; a walking monument of both the victories and defeats of his people. A middle-aged man of Nordic descent; measuring five foot four when at attention. Has pallid white skin, made highlight by both numerous scars and assorted injuries; garnered from less fortunate times in the heat of battle. Unrefined by every definition of the word; a sufferer of tooth decay, wounds improperly healed. Handicapped by the absence of the two lowest fingers on his left hand. A slight stomp in his walk, a sometimes clumsy hand to objects artifice, this beserker is by no means graceful.
Einar, now an artisan of all things metal, has donned the garments of a smith. Where his helmet once rested, instead lies a leather cap bound to his chin, and drawn tightly against his temple; a pair of clunky, metal goggles strapped about. Within his head, where an eye once peeped, now rests a unique creation: a hollow, chilling glass lens with rims black and gold: a stark contrast to the ruddy humanity abound the Viking. To the torso, Einar wears the rough clothes of a man of labor; rustic, ruddy garments created to stand the tests of time and torment. Along his shoulders, a rudimentary pauldron can be found on the left; shoddy, but the first of his many creations, along with a baldic containing his family's sword, Gunnlogi. With tough, durable gloves on his hands, and sturdy, resilient metal grieves on his feet, Einar's labors have changed from that of waging war to the craft of creating for it.
As of now, Einar lives with the living journal Morty in his apartment amongst the ruins of Downwarp. (It's an interesting situation, really.)
"Having been trained and educated by Lady System, I find myself forever in her debt... although she should teach me to create such powerful inner-workings as her own, one day!"
"Eli... a tortured soul for all to see... perhaps one day he'll find the solace he's looking for?"
"Variable... you'll understand one day."
"16... even the purest hatred has but the tiniest affections..."
"Ah, Morty. Not only my landlord, but also a good scholar of all things knowledgeable. (Although I try to keep my wrists away from that graspy journal he lives in.)"
"Mother. Such a filthy beast for so fine a word."
"Theda... heh heh heh."
(Well, if you've got something to say, might as well say it here!)
"I'm letting him crash in the apartment -- perhaps he can protect me. Assuming he doesn't flip out and kill me himself." -- Morty