The Elder Scrolls: Tamriel

A burly, broad-shouldered Nord with a weathered and leathery face, deeply creased from years of squinting into the sun and scowling into the cold. He has a bushy, unkempt beard the color of dirty snow and thinning sandy-blond hair tied back in a greasy knot. His pale gray eyes are sharp and full of suspicion, often drooping with weariness. He wears a faded, patched-up set of boiled leather armor over simple linens, with an old iron axe always within reach. His worn boots are nearly through at the soles, and he carries the stink of sea salt and stale mead.

Gruff, quiet, and perpetually tired, Snorreid is the embodiment of a man who’s done enough fighting to know he doesn’t want to anymore—but will if he has to. He rarely initiates conversation, and when he does speak, it’s with a gravelly voice, short and to the point, often laced with dry sarcasm. He has no time for lofty ideals or small talk, and while he doesn’t care much about the law, he cares even less for strangers snooping where they shouldn’t. Beneath his grumbling exterior, however, is a surprisingly observant mind—he sees everything that goes on in the warehouse, even if he pretends not to. While not cruel, Snorreid is fiercely territorial and has a low tolerance for fools, thieves, and greenhorns who think he’s just a sleeping old drunk. He’s not interested in heroism. He’s interested in keeping his spot, his quiet, and his damn bedroll warm. Disturb that, and you’ll find out real quick how fast a “lazy old man” can move.

Snorreid once served as a dock guard and occasional caravan escort up and down Skyrim’s coasts, a man whose strength outpaced his ambition. He fought in minor skirmishes and broke up more than his fair share of tavern fights but never sought glory or rank. Years ago, he was quietly taken in by the East Empire Company after a shipping job turned into a bloodbath thanks to a pirate ambush—Snorreid was one of the only survivors, and his brutal defense of the cargo earned him a permanent place among the warehouse staff. Now, he spends his days in the southern upper section of the Solitude warehouse, sleeping more than working, pretending not to notice most things unless coin—or trouble—is involved. He rarely speaks about his past, and some whisper he’s seen far worse than he lets on. Others say he’s just lazy. Either way, trespassers tend to learn the hard way not to take his slumber for granted.