Himself a Roegadyn, to no one's surprise, he was a bear of a man. On the tall side of things even in comparison to his own kind, he towered over most and managed to match many of the rest. His long, black hair was braided behind his head, with a matching beard framing the outline of his face; if a stranger were to bump into him in a dark alleyway, it wouldn't be unreasonable if they feared for their safety.
Upon closer inspection, however, many might think again. More often than not, the man donned innocuous clothing; sporting a garb consisting of cloth and leather pierces, seldom did he ever possess a visible weapon on his person. The expression upon his face's dark features rarely appeared harsh or malicious, finding itself most at home when curled into a gentle smile.
As the third born son of his family, Fjord was destined towards his inevitable fate of being sent off to fend for and make something of himself in the major cities. He was twenty at the time, and while he definitely had the size and muscles, he didn't have the propensity to pursue the avenues which his siblings encouraged him to undertake.
Knocking heads, snapping spines- he was by no means a stranger to the concept or the practice. In fact, he was quite good at it. However, such things simply didn't interest him. Too often did he find himself under the command of some buffoon and no amount of monetary compensation would make it any more tolerable. Egotistic, perhaps, but he saw it as a necessity lest he cut off his own ears to preserve his sanity.
Throughout his years and travels, he'd take up apprenticeship under a reputable blacksmith, finally feeling as if he'd managed to find someone worthy of his respect, and his ears. He always had tended to have a penchant for learning, growing fascinated in the field and the process by which it operated. Alas, all good things must come to an end; his tutor passed away in the recent years, leaving him now to use what he learned to continue his training and studies himself.