Born and reared of Skyrim, Starkad was the eldest-bred son of the House Long-Fang, a respected clan known for rigorous adherence to ancient tradition. They were a family of true Nords, as much a part of Skyrim as the tundra and the unmelting snows girdling the Sea of Ghosts. Long-Fang Hall is a hearth and home well-removed from the cities and Holds, nestling itself in the mountainous between Hjaalmarch and the Pale. It was here that Starkad learned his use of the sword and axe, the rush of combat and the thrill of the hunt. It was an austere and spartan upbringing, but it was all part of the great riddle that was life.
Every Sundas, Starkad would join his father on his cart to Morthal, trading pelts and lumber for fish, produce, and other necessities. Whenever Imperials made their way through, young Starkad ensured he was bold and boisterous in his cursing of them, just as he was taught. They were usurpers, unworthy of their hold on Starkad's beautiful homeland. As Stakad aged, this youthful energy was hammered and tempered into pointed aggression. Hatred, even. He partook in rallies against Imperial displays of dominion, setting fire to standards, defacing effigies of the puppet emperor, and pelting legion patrols with rocks and rotten vegetables.
Once ushered into adulthood, Starkad was gifted the Long-fang, the heirloom sword of their clan. To bear it in service to Jarl Ulfric, the true High King, was an honor beyond expression. During his service, Starkad was present through the burgeoning days of the rebellion, the years leading up to the explosion of conflict and open revolution. He was there at the battle of Whiterun, the innumerable skirmishes and assaults on fortresses and encampments. He partook in songs of victory as often as toasts to the honored dead.
During the the Stormcloak campaign, Starkad had been courting a woman he met while soldiering. She found a strong man in a uniform scrumptious, and Starkad was enchanted by the woman's lithe grace. Both knew Starkad's family would never approve, and if word got out, their clandestine rendezvous would end in fire. So they played the sly game, sometimes going months without seeing each other. How sweet the nights were after such absence...
However, life in Skyrim is never easy, and it is never fair. Seeing Starkad in the present is like seeing the ghost of the man he once was. It wasn't the war that broke him, but the evil it spawns in the hearts of men. Men whom he'd called kinsmen and shield-brothers took from him the woman he loved in the most violent and vile fashions, the memory of that ever burned into his mind as the final sight of his right eye. Seeing the hatred his once fostered turned back at him and those he loved, Starkad abandoned the war effort.
With the increasing intensity of the war, Starkad moved to the Rift. Those along the road saw him not with his lady-love, but a mewling child swaddled in furs and blankets. His posture was crooked, burdened beyond hauling their measly cart. What people saw was a man kept together by the love of his sickly child, nothing more.
There, in the Rift, Starkad built a humble little home for himself and his daughter, whom his late lover had named "Mara", after her preferred goddess. Starkad would hunt for meat and pelts, teach Mara how to fish and tend soil, keeping as far away from any side of the war as they could. Every time a caravan passed, or a hunting party stalked through, Mara wished to go play. Every time it broke Starkad's heart, but he couldn't let her go beyond their measly fenced garden. Skyrim belonged to the Nords, but it was no less perilous. Nothing changed for Skyrim, but things had only gotten worse for him.
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