Gunvald
Lionheart

A Man Still Standing

Name’s Gunvald. Once wore a knight’s crest, carried oaths like armor. That life’s long behind me now — what’s left is the man who crawled out of what burned and learned to keep walking.I don’t talk much about the old days. They taught me enough to know what matters isn’t glory or banners.. it’s keeping the people beside you breathing. That’s the work. Always has been.These days, I go where I’m needed. Guard a caravan, hold a gate, train a few souls to keep their footing in a fight. It’s not about coin, not really. It’s about purpose. About not letting the quiet swallow you whole.If you’re looking for someone steady, someone who won’t fold when things get bad... I’ll answer. I’ve seen worse. Stood through worse. Still here. That’s got to count for something."Some storms you walk through alone. Some, you don’t."--- First Glance ---
Gunvald looks every bit the man who’s lived more lives than he should have. Broad-shouldered and built from hard work rather than vanity, his frame carries the kind of strength that’s endured, not flaunted. Scars cut across his arms and chest like old roads, some pale, some fresh, each one telling a story. His hair... silver and unkempt... frames a face carved with wear and quiet confidence, the faint shadow of a beard softening the severity of his jaw. There’s weight behind his eyes, but not defeat... just a man who’s seen enough storms to stop fearing the next one. Even at rest, there’s a steadiness to him, the calm of someone who’s already survived the worst.

• Backstory

• Hooks

The Work Goes On

"You don’t choose what shapes you. You just try to survive it."I was born in the highlands, where the wind cuts through you before you’ve learned to stand against it. Life was simple there... hard, but honest. We built what we needed, we fought for what we couldn’t build, and we learned quick that the world doesn’t slow down for anyone.My father was a knight in the old way... iron spine, quiet heart. He didn’t talk about glory, or songs, or banners. He spoke of duty. Said a man’s worth wasn’t measured by the battles he won, but by the folk still standing behind him when the dust settled. That lesson stuck harder than any blow he ever gave me.He put a blade in my hands before I could write my own name. Not to make me a killer, but to teach me control. “A sword’s a tool,” he used to say, “same as a plow or hammer. It’s the hand behind it that decides what kind of man you are.” I learned to hold it steady, learned to take a hit without flinching, and learned that mercy takes more strength than wrath.Years passed, and the house that raised us began to fade. Titles turned to whispers, fortunes turned to debts. I watched proud men lose their purpose and proud women lose their sons. There was a siege, once... the kind that leaves smoke in your lungs for years after. We held as long as we could. Long enough for most to get clear. After that… well. The rest isn’t worth retelling.I should’ve died there. Would’ve, if not for hands that found use in what was left of me. They tore me apart, bit by bit, searching for what made me endure. Said they were building something greater. I learned then that pain can be as precise as any craftsman’s tool. They built what they wanted... and I walked out anyway.Since then, I’ve gone where I’m needed. No more banners, no more oaths to men who forget your name once the blood’s cleaned off the steel. These days, I stand guard over whoever can’t stand for themselves... a caravan, a family, a stranger caught in the wrong place. It’s not glory. It’s work. And it’s enough.Some nights, I still hear the echoes, the clang of steel, the shouts, the fire. But they fade with the morning, and I get up just the same. There’s always someone who needs a steady hand, a word of reason, or just a man willing to take the hit so they don’t have to.That’s all I am now. Not a knight. Not a hero. Just someone still standing. And for now… that’s enough.