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Post by aardvarklord on Apr 6, 2016 23:23:46 GMT -5
The land of Calradia has become a land of strife, plagued by near-constant war, political infighting, banditry, and all other manner of hazards. The peasantry fear for their lives on a regular basis, the nobility lead their armies against their foes and have tournaments to celebrate victories afterwards, and those displaced by combat have been forced to turn to unscrupulous methods of sustaining themselves. Of course, with such dangers come grand opportunities for those capable of grabbing them. Ambitious merchants ply their wares at inflated prices, troubadours seek brave knights and beautiful maidens to play their songs for, clergy seek to better speak for their religion. And of course soldiers, whether they be mercenaries or deposed nobles or commoners driven to banditry, all seeking to carve out their piece of the world in this time of "might makes right." Some fight for land, others for glory, some for wealth, others still seeking to impress some fair maiden, and then there are those who fight simply because it's the only work they enjoy. Either way, Calradia has become a hotbed of activity for those seeking to claim their desires... and a tomb for many who were unable to do so.
Now, this is a Mount and Blade RP, so at least some degree of understanding of how that world is laid out is requested--nothing a Wiki visit can't fix of course, but you understand. Something to know here is that it is MEDIEVAL. Not fantasy, medieval. So no elves or dragons. We also ask that anyone who makes a character tries to keep it within the degree of possibility that makes sense historically and with the leeway that the game allows. For example, women can become soldiers here, just don't expect a warm welcome from the average nobleman; women may not be as hamstringed here as in real medieval life, but they still are definitely the marginalized group. Similarly, don't expect a commoner to immediately be welcomed into the king's halls or for nobles to want to give their daughter's hand to someone unworthy of their attention. Now, that's not to say we can't have characters who overcome this in the course of the roleplay, but it's a steeper hill. Also, we'll want to keep this group moving, so one character to a person (at least at first) and let's limit it to four people until we get a feel for how quick we can get posted. May expand later on.
Character Bio
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Social Class: (Noble, Clergy, or Commoner)
Profession:
Allegiance: (If any)
Rank: (If any)
Appearance
Height:
Weight:
Eye Color:
Hair Color:
Hair Style:
Facial Hair:
Distinguishing features: (If Any)
Attributes: (Strength, Agility, Intelligence, Charisma, just a rough idea of how gifted you are. And don't say you're excellent at everything; you might say you're well-rounded, but no masters of all aspects.)
Skills: (Just a rough idea of what your character's good at)
Training: (How does your character know what they know?)
Equipment:
Companions: (this includes any army you may have. Keep it light please.)
Personality:
History:
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Jackie
Child
Professional lazy grump.
Posts: 248 Likes: 23 
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Post by Jackie on Apr 7, 2016 0:03:09 GMT -5
Name: Gwynevere 'Gwyn' Delacroix Age: 23 Gender: Female Social Class: Noble Profession: Noble Allegiance: Swadia Rank: Knight  Height: 5'5" Weight: 133 lbs Eye Color: Blue Hair Color: Red Hair Style: Falls to her upper/mid back. On the battlefield she keeps it in a ponytail or bun beneath her helmet, off the battlefield she wears it loose. Facial Hair: None Distinguishing features: A few scars on various parts of her body, most notable scar is across her left eye. French accent. Attributes Strength - Average (bit above average for a woman her size, which isn't saying much) Agility - Average (good when she isn't clad in her armor) Intelligence - Excellent Charisma - Very good (more in the leading/inspiring troops sort of way rather than mingling with others in her social class) Skills: One-handed weapons (swords and maces), two-handed weapons (swords and axes), pole-arms, shield usage, horse riding, strategy/tactics, leadership. Training: Taught the usual skills most young noble women are taught by her Aunt Mariot. Learned the finer points of diplomacy from her father. Everything having to do with warfare she was taught by Aldwin. Equipment: Longsword, Gwyn wields her blade more skillfully with two hands, but when the situation requires a good shield, she is still quite lethal when wielding it with one, also carries a mace for when she needs to deal with foes wearing plate. Wears Half-plate armor over a gambeson and carries a round shield (kept on her back when not in use) in battle. When not wearing her armor, she is often found wearing this simple outfit, usually with her sword still strapped to her hip. Owns a few dresses of various quality for when she has to make public appearances at formal events or attend another noble's court.
Companions: A Clydesdale named Ash whom she raised herself. The size and strength of the forces Gwyn commands vary depending on the state of affairs in the Swadian kingdom. During times of war she'll command anywhere from 60-80 men, while during times of 'peace' as they are in now, the numbers are closer to 20-40. Lately Gwyn has been hunting down bandits that have been attacking Swadian trade caravans. The small, disorganized rabbles she's been fighting haven't stressed any need for more than the 30 infantry, archers, and cavalry currently under her command. Personality: Fiery, independent, and about as willful as they come, Gwyn is about the opposite of what people envision when they hear the title 'Lady'. Some call her progressive, others, an enemy of the natural order of things. Either way, she isn't the sort that shies away from a challenge, no matter how hard the road that lie before her might be. While Gwyn will (and has) fought enemy forces larger than her own, her unwavering loyalty to the men under her command ensures she will never put their lives at risk fighting a pointless (or hopeless) battle. Better to retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day than throw themselves on the sword in her opinion. Gwyn knows that some Lords would call this 'cowardice', but she cares not what her peers think of her so long as she has the respect and trust of those serving beneath her. While she can be a bit mouthy and quick to anger at times, Gwyn at least retains enough common sense to know when and around whom it is best for her to hold her tongue. Being a woman pursuing a profession dominated almost entirely by men, Gwyn has grown accustomed with having to work twice as hard to get the same recognition she'd receive if she were a man herself. Surprisingly, she isn't particularly bitter about this, she's merely grown to accept it as a part of the times she lives in. Gwyn possesses a fair deal more humility than most nobles, truthfully she's more comfortable when in the presence of commoners and her fellow soldiers as opposed to other nobles. Now, all this said she is a little arrogant in the sense she believes Swadian culture to be superior to the cultures of the other nations. Fortunately she is wise enough to not let this arrogance turn to cockiness on the battlefield, as she knows to underestimate ones enemy is to sign your own death warrant. In this age of strife, many nobles have resorted to using morally questionable tactics to achieve their goals, though Gwyn has thus far refused to stoop to such levels. She's a firm believer that chivalry and compassion are just as important on the battlefield as tenacity and aggression. The most dishonorable thing she is willing to do is take enemy Lords prisoner to ransom at a later date, if only because she needs the denars, even then she always treats her captives with all due respect so long as they cooperate, not to mention she jumps on the first offer a nation makes if only to get them off her hands and back home faster. Her compassion extends to the common soldier as well, by her orders any man that lays down his arms and surrenders to her forces is to be treated kindly. History: Gwynevere is the only child of Lucian and Brigitte Delacroix, the Lord and Lady of the small Swadian village of Gism, which sits near the Swadian/Nord border. While far from wealthy, the small community did well for itself, it's people had few complaints with the Delacroix's, as Lucian was a fair Baron and his wife had been a pillar of the community for years before his arrival to start with. From about the time she could walk, little Gwyn was getting herself into all sorts of trouble and proving quite the handful for her mother, not that the woman minded it. For several years the family and surrounding community lived in relative peace, but as she so often did, Mother Nature would soon remind people just how fickle of a mistress she truly was... It wasn't men that would bring the village of Gism to it's knees, but disease. A virulent illness the likes of which had never been seen before in the village's history swept through the community. At first it didn't seem all that bad, sicknesses came and went, but Gism wasn't nearly as squalid as most of the larger towns were. Fever signaled the start of the illness, vomiting and severe aches soon followed, those striken suffered anywhere from two to four weeks before either getting better or succumbing. Very quickly things spiraled out of control, with most of the village population infected within the first week, there just weren't enough healthy men and women left to take care of the sick. People began to die, a few families were completely killed off by the sickness. Even the Delacroix family fell prey to the illness, both Lucien and Brigitte, now pregnant with her second child, contracting the disease, as did little Gwyn, whom was a tender five years old at the time. Looking back on the dark times, Gwyn often wonders if God or sheer luck ensured her survival, for after a couple of weeks her fever broke and her good health returned. Lucien recovered himself a few days later, but the family's luck would run out. After managing to cling for life through three hellish weeks, Brigitte Delacroix succumbed to the sickness and passed away. While Gwynevere was still a bit to young to understand the concept of death, she did understand she'd never see her mother again, which upset her greatly. Lucien was completely devastated by the death of his beloved wife, if his child and the townsfolk didn't need him now more than ever, grief alone may have accomplished what the disease could not. By the time the illness had run it's course and departed Gism, the village had been shattered, almost a quarter of it's population had died. Over the next few weeks several families emigrated elsewhere, some hoped to find a better life abroad and start over, others... well, perhaps they thought that the more distance they put between themselves and Gism, the lighter the pain on their souls would be at all that had been lost there. Trade all but stopped not long after, Gism's once thriving little economy grinding to a halt and stagnating. Lucien resorted to getting in touch with some old friends and contacts of his to help keep the community afloat, but cost cutting became a way of life. Unable to support as large a guard as they had before, Gism soon became the target of bandits and other ruffians seeking to make their living at the cost of others, somehow Lucien held everything together however, and life went on. While the loss of her mother would eat at her for years to come, it only served to strengthen the bond between daughter and father. Indeed as she grew up Gwyn was heavily influenced by her father, she would listen wide-eyed and awestruck at the tales he'd regale her with of his younger days when he served the King in a more proactive role, leading troops on the battlefield against Swadia's enemies. It quickly became clear that Gywn wasn't like other girls her age. Her idea of fun was wrestling in the mud, 'sword fighting' with sticks, and other such 'boyish' activities. Her father hadn't thought much of it at the time, passing it off as a consequence of having nannies instead of a proper mother to look after her and teach her how to be a proper woman. Lucien never remarried, as he was never quite able to get over the loss of his wife, instead he devoted the entirety of his time to looking after his daughter and the people of his fief, it was his hope he could one day return Gism to it's former prosperity. As was customary, upon turning seven years old Gwyn was sent by her father to live with her Aunt Mariot in Praven. It was there she would learn just what was to be expected of her as a noble woman of Swadia, as well as how to properly act as one. It was also during her time in Praven that Gwyn discovered just how much she despised the life she was meant to lead. Even at her young age, the girl knew she wanted something more for herself when she grew up, and as the years went by, her resolve to try and be something better strengthened all the more. Gwynevere didn't return to Gism until three years later, and while she was happy to be back with her father, it was clear to see that the village wasn't fairing much better, and the girl found herself wondering if it ever would again. She tried not to let this put a damper on her mood, instead focusing on getting resettled back in the home she so greatly loved. Things did not remain peaceful for very long however. While she'd kept it to herself, not mentioning it to her father in any of her letters home, Gwyn didn't want to end up a lady-in-waiting or married off to some stuffy Lord, used only to keep a home and bear children. No, she knew what path she wanted to take, she wanted to follow in her father's footsteps and serve her nation on the battlefield... Gwyn wanted to be a Knight. Upon confessing this to her father one day, the man reacted much as one would have expected to, practically laughing the idea off as a fantasy, but Gwyn wasn't laughing, and she pressed the matter. Unsurprisingly,
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Post by aardvarklord on Apr 7, 2016 2:09:03 GMT -5
Name: Jeralt of the Steppes Age: 27 Gender: Male Social Class: Commoner Profession: Steppe Tribesman Allegiance: His tribe Rank: Warband commander Appearance  Height: 5'9" Weight: 160 lbs Eye Color: Grey Hair Color: Dark brown Hair Style: Shoulder length Facial Hair: None Distinguishing features: A brown birthmark on the right side of his neck, a few assorted scars Attributes: --Strength: Very good --Agility: Excellent --Intelligence: Average, perhaps slightly below. --Charisma: Above average Skills: He is best trained in the use of horseback combat, particularly with bows and spears, though he's perfectly adept with hand-and-a-half swords. Obviously, he's also a very good rider and knows how to handle horses. Additionally, he is very good in his survival skills, such as hunting, tracking, and pathfinding in the wilderness. He knows basic tactics and can lead a raiding party, but a grand general he is not (think of him as a competent but uncreative captain-equivalent). Knows very basic first aid (put pressure on the wound and wrap it up). Training: Many years spent with a steppe tribe and learning to become one of their warriors. Equipment: A hunter horse named Arrow, a saddle with bags, a brigandine and similar medium armour, a messer sword, a hunting bow and arrows, a spear, and general survival equipment. Companions: No permanent companions, but sometimes leads up to forty men into battle (often closer to 20). Personality: Jeralt is a fellow of contradictions. On one hand he is often very irreverent to those that he does not respect, playing at words at them and trying to see how long it takes for them to figure out that he is insulting them. On the other, those he does respect he treats with great deference. It would be a stretch to say he revels in bloodshed, but he enjoys the thrill of the hunt and he particularly loves non-lethal altercations. Generally he respects people not by their station, but by their boldness and/or bravery; a king may earn scorn from him while a peasant might be someone he would swear fealty to (hypothetically). He has a soft spot for disadvantaged people who claw their way up anyways, and will often show them inordinate respect. His first loyalty is to his men and tribe and nobody has earned his deeper respects outside of it yet, but he's not closed-minded about such things. Also, he has a peculiar treatment of women: he treats them tenderly and with the sort of chivalrous attitude that one might expect from a noble (even though he's not one), yet he also shows mothers more respect on first meeting than he does to almost anyone else save for war heroes. Additionally, he has made no efforts at courtship lately, though that likely has more to do with him being in grief than any lack of desire for a bride, though he has historically not shown particular interest in siring an heir. He also has almost no political aims; he seems to have a mindset of 'what will happen will happen' and has focused himself entirely on keeping his tribe alive... not that he wouldn't like to be the chieftain, he just doesn't find it worth the effort to actually strive for it when it will either come to him, or it won't. History: Jeralt's story starts in a house of nobility, with a poorly-controlled Rhodokan count and an attractive young servant girl who happened to catch his eye. As sometimes happened with such cases, his mother was cast from the house and the city, thrown into the wilderness where his father hoped that she would die along with the evidence of his infidelity. However, his mother Nadia was a strong-willed woman, not what one would call fierce in manner but stubborn and blessed with a powerful will to live. She survived in the wilds alone for a time, unable to find a place that she could call home with what meager coin she had and was forced to live off the land. Eventually, she wandered so far from Rhodok that she found her way in with a steppe tribe, who may not have been keen to have new recruits, but the fact that the woman had survived alone for so long and was laden with child was enough for them to cave and allow her in. Nadia and, once he was born, Jeralt came to adopt the nomadic lifestyle smoothly and without issue. To the young man, to live was to struggle, and he quickly learned that in all things there was one rule: you had to keep moving. There wasn't much respect shown to him early in his life, as he had no (acknowledged) bloodline to call his own, and thus the other children were shown higher priority. Adding complications to the matter, his mother was married early in his life to one of the lower warriors who deeply desired heirs of his own, and as such tended to dismiss Jeralt as unworthy of his time, unwilling to adopt him as his own son. However, Jeralt found his own mentors in the tribe and devoted himself to learning the roles of a man, starting as a young hunter, and slowly progressing into becoming a warrior. He had half-siblings growing up and he did his part to care for him (whether his father liked it or not), but of four born only his sole sister, Edwena, saw her tenth winter--his brothers died as newborns, the third being the longest lived at nine years old when he was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. Amusingly, the month that his little brother died, Jeralt had been granted the title of warrior and was blooded in his first skirmish against some military deserters who had been threatening their land tribe. He and his stepfather never truly came to see each other as family, but as Jeralt started to prove himself as a capable warrior a grudging respect grew between the two. When his stepfather died in battle alongside him, the lad was proud to bury him with honors and treated him with dignity, only stopping short as referring to him as 'father'. For a brief time, Jeralt's life was normalized, mostly spent hunting and performing any other duty that his tribe needed of him, occasionally raiding bandit camps and trade caravans or skirmishing with rival tribes. It was during one of these skirmishes that his life took an unexpected turn. One of the other steppe tribes had made the poor decision to attack his own directly and with horribly dishonorable tactics, striking at the camp itself while their main battle party was dealing with some particularly irritating bandits. The women and elderly acquitted themselves well, his mother in particular felling five mounted men and wounding several others, but she and several others (including her sister's husband) were cut down by the raiders before the party could return and drive them off. However, there would be retribution: before the funeral pyres had finished smoldering, Jeralt personally gathered up a warband of fifty men and they descended like a blizzard upon their rivals' camp. Not a single man of fighting age survived their attack. However, during the fighting, he noticed the women of the tribe putting up a ferocious stand, forming a circle around their children. On seeing this, Jeralt ordered that the women and children were not to be harmed and, once the rest of the battle had concluded he dismounted to meet with them. While most of the women were finished fighting, one stepped forward with a spear and challenged him in a duel, claiming that she would rather die than be taken as a captive. Impressed by her bravery, he declined the duel, instead agreeing that the women and their children would be allowed to join the clan, a fitting repayment to both sides for the damage inflicted. Most agreed, if reluctantly. This particular woman's name was Nerida, and she brought with her a young son named Kygen. At first, she loathed Jeralt. Later, as he showed she and her son kindness as if they had been born into the tribe, she came to forgive him. Eventually, she loved him, and they were married two years ago, Jeralt adopting Kygen as his own and taking it upon himself to show the boy the love of a father that he himself had never known. While these nomads continued to live their lives, on the periphery Calradia was descending into chaos. At first Jeralt and his tribe took little notice of this; after all, the issues of the great fool kings was no concern of theirs so long as they didn't try to involve the tribe. However, as more and more bandits, deserters, and displaced peasants started to flood the land, the tribe's lifestyle became increasingly disrupted. They found themselves moving more, less food available for them to gather, and thus forced to raid towns and other tribes more. They've even been considering kidnapping, as some other tribes have reported that noble houses will pay handsomely for their own. However, he has refrained from that, only considering worthy capture on the battlefield honorable in this regard. Unfortunately, the last few months have been brutal for the tribe. For him, it started when his darling Nerida died in childbirth. Edwena attempted to act as an aunt for the babe, but soon after an illness swept through the tribe. Few died, but his child was one of them. However, he was unable to properly grieve, as the tribe's number of capable members was drastically reduced, even bringing their chieftain to his knees, so he and the other healthy hunters were forced to work for days on end trying to provide food for their tribe. They managed to get their tribe through the illness, but now their situation has become quite dire. Their food reserves were emptied by the pandemic and the local armies have been depleting the local forests' wild game and the local farms at a frightening rate. Now their situation has become desperate, and Jeralt has found himself forced into a leadership position in the tribe, leading many of their men out on expeditions far more often than ever before, and many of their trips further from home than he felt comfortable against enemies that he would prefer not to make. However, they have no choice: they have little in the way of silver and must have food. The others in the tribe have said that, if he continues to prove himself how he is, he might become the chieftain. His response has always been the same: "I'll worry about that if we survive." |
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Post by Stelpher on Apr 7, 2016 11:45:01 GMT -5
I too believe I may join this.
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ThreeDawg
Administrator
Voice of the Wastes
Posts: 1,219
Likes: 33
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 8, 2016 1:49:38 GMT -5
I'd 10/10 join this but uni commitments.
Damn education.
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Post by Stelpher on Apr 8, 2016 10:45:21 GMT -5
Name: Günther Reinhardt Age: 38 Gender: Male Social Class: Commoner Profession: Mercenary Allegiance: Freelance, Kingdom of Vaegirs (Formerly) Rank: N/A Appearance Height: 6’1” Weight: 207 lbs Eye Color: Green Hair Color: A dark brown that once edged towards black, but has now started to grey. Hair Style: Something along the lines of this for hair and facial hair.Distinguishing features: The years have not necessarily been kind to Reinhardt, his features hard and worn. His body bares many small scars from minor wounds, however two are of note; A large diagonal gash across his back that nearly took his life and a smaller cut leading away from the corner of his left eye – a close encounter with a bowman. Attributes: Strength – Excellent. Agility – Good, while not as quick and manoeuvrable as he was when he was younger, he has kept his body in shape to keep up with his work. Intelligence – Average/Above average, Reinhardt has a fairly good head on his shoulders, gaining much knowledge from both experience and learning, however he is certainly no scholar. Charisma – Decent/Below Average, Reinhardt is normally the kind to allow his actions to speak louder than his words however he can be highly sociable when speaking with kindred warriors. Skills: Due to his background Reinhardt has at least some degree of competence with most one-handed weapons and has used crossbows on several occasions for hunting purposes, his true talent for swordsmanship comes into play with exactly that - swords. While Reinhardt considers himself too large in figure to make proper use of short swords and knives efficiently, he has become well-versed in the use of hand-and-a-half swords and two-handed swords. Training: Even before Reinhardt became a mercenary he had practised in the use of weapons. The Reinhardt family was one of blacksmiths, having produced tools and weapons for generations. Günther spent most of his young life learning how to smith, however in his spare time he would ask his father to teach him how to use the weapons they created. Once Günther became a mercenary the frequency and intensity of his training increased considerably, as did his combat experience. Equipment: Zweihander, A Dagger primarily used as last resort. Plate Armour, usually worn without the helmet. Reinhardt owns a set of lighter Leather Armour for situations where he cannot use his clunky Plate, however this is usually carried by his mule, along with a sword and buckler. Companions: Reinhardt has worked with many different mercenary bands over the years, however is only constant companion has been his pack mule, Rogers. Personality: Despite his occupation, Reinhardt is actually a relatively kind person by nature. While he enjoys a good fight he does not like to kill, only doing so because it is necessary in his line of work. An honest and hard-working man, Reinhardt has a strong hatred for anyone who abuses their power. He has a strong sense of comradery however he chooses not to stay with any one band of mercenaries for too long, as he believes that making friends in a business of blood can only lead to pain. History: The Reinhardt family has long since occupied a small smithy on the outskirts of Sumbuja. Günther’s mother, a gentle woman, had once helped his father around the shop but her health began to deteriorate after Günther’s birth. By Günther’s fourth birthday her body was frail, a ghost of the form it use to be, however she refused to allow herself to be confined to her bed and continued to keep an active role in the household seemingly through force of will alone. From a young age Günther began helping his father around the forge in her place, gradually learning the family business. His daily regime included strength and fitness exercises in the morning, helping out around the forge during the day, then weapon training and chores in the afternoon. As Günther grew older he would occasionally have to go to the nearest town or to other homesteads in the area, usually to deliver orders or pick up produce. On one particular visit to a farm little more than a half hours walk from the smithy he met his first friend. The daughter of the farmers, a young girl at an age roughly comparable to Günther’s own, named Irene. Ire (ai-ree), as she preferred to be called, seemed to latch onto him almost immediately. The girl would get excited whenever he came over to do business with her family, and the two developed a strong friendship over the years. It was at the age of eleven when Günther’s mother finally passed, resisting an illness for several weeks before her body finally gave in. The remaining two Reinhardt’s grieved, and family friends gave their condolences, but Günther and his father were at least happy that his mother passed on without any regrets. Years continued to pass by and over time Günther learnt more, trained harder and helped his father around the forge more. His relationship with Ire deepened, and without either of them realizing hints of love became evident. Irene was a very energetic, upbeat person, with a fiery temper to match. This suited Günther just fine however, he enjoyed just listening and laughing as she would talk about this and that, occasionally jumping in with a minor input to keep the fire of Ire’s monologues burning. At the age of sixteen bandits attacked the smithy, on a dark and snowy winter night. Günther’s father realized what was happening and slew the initial two intruders before telling Günther to grab a sword to defend himself. Günther ran to another room to get his sword, but was cut off by another two bandits, while a further four engaged his father. Günther’s training paid off and he was able to kill the two bandits with only minor injuries, however the fight was long and by the time he reached his father again it was too late. His father had succeeded in defeating the four bandits, but sustained heavy injuries in return. The medical assistance Günther himself could give was only minor, and the two both knew that a doctor would not reach them in time. His father bled out through the night and once more Günther wept for the loss of his kin. Günther continued to operate the forge by himself following the death of his father, and had remained mostly isolated (apart from deliveries and orders) for the next two months before he was given a reason to smile again. Irene, blossoming into a beautiful young woman, decided that he had grieved for long enough alone and began to drop by the forge often. At first it was weekly, and then twice a week, before Reinhardt knew it she had begun showing up every day. Ire became his anchor, her daily visits a reason to get through his daily regime (to which he still followed) and he finally saw his feelings for her as they were – love. Ire had long since realized how she felt and when he told her how he felt all she could say was that she had been waiting for him. Within two years the couple got married, with Irene’s family’s blessing, and she began to live with him. Ire was more than happy to help Reinhardt with his work and the two continued their happy lives for many years, but their happiness was not meant to last. Eight years passed after the marriage of Günther and Irene, and the Kingdom of Vaegirs was in conflict. Speaking correctly the land was usually in conflict, as were all the other lands, but this was the first time it had directly interrupted Reinhardt’s life. Weeks earlier an army led by a noble looking fellow, Boyar Kharnim, passed by the forge towards by the border. The Boyar was dressed in a full set of plate armour, both resplendent and fearsome in appearance, and the army following emanated grim determination. The army returned significantly smaller, barely a sixth of the size and half of those composed of the wounded. Outraged by his defeat the Boyar approached the forge and demanded the three hundred blades be built for his army upon his return in a months’ time. Reinhardt tried to reason with the man and explain the outrageousness of the request, but he would not listen. Ire, as hot-blooded as ever, was infuriated by the man’s impossible request. Unable to stop herself she went off at the Boyar, saying that only an imbecile would believe it possible to build so many swords in such a short amount of time with so few people. Reinhardt desperately tried to apologize for his wife’s rudeness, but the noble ignored him. Whether it was that the comment had come from a commoner or a woman that angered him, nobody knew, but he immediately ordered one of his men to pass him a crossbow. Before Reinhardt could even fully process what was occurring in front of him, the bolt shot forward and impaled Ire through the chest. As Reinhardt rushed over to her side and held her, the Boyar ordered his men to raze their house (the forge was mostly stone, and therefor would not burn). Reinhardt’s eyes burned with tears as he watched his wife’s life drain into a large puddle of crimson beneath them. He held Ire close, words pouring from his mouth. Apologies, assurances, he searched endlessly for something to say to her. She simply lifted a weak arm up to his face and brushed his hair from his eyes and told him she loved him before her body shuddered and went limp. Reinhardt wept over the body of his wife for a long moment, before brushing the tears from his eyes and glaring towards Boyar Kharnim. All but forgotten by the Boyar, Reinhardt rushed over to him. The men in his way were weak, injured and unable to stop him, while all the able-bodied soldiers were busy starting an inferno inside Reinhardt’s house. The Boyar still wore his resplendent plate armour’s helmet, and the lack of peripheral vision meant that by the time the man noticed Reinhardt it was already too late. Reinhardt drew the knife he had taken to carrying since the bandit attack from his belt and thrust it beneath the shoulder, into the large gap in the armour. The Boyar stopped moving immediately pleaded for mercy, while a few of his more observant and less injured troops began to approach. Reinhardt forced the Boyar to call them off then slowly began to pull him away from the house towards the surrounding woods, using the Boyar as a hostage, all the while demanding the Boyar to keep his men in place if he wanted to keep his life. After three hours of this retreat, the two were deep in the forest, and Reinhardt was sure that none of the Boyar’s men had followed them in that far. He told the Boyar that they had backed off far enough and that he would release him, but first the Boyar would have to remove his helmet. Kharnim looked somewhat thin, with features that reminded Reinhardt of a rat, and a long moustache. After being able to see the man face to face, eye to eye, Reinhardt relaxed his grip, before thrusting the blade up under the man’s chin and into his skull. The man’s eyes burst out in surprise and pain, and his mouth opened in a silent scream as blood bubbled into his throat, before the blade pushed through the roof of his mouth and into his brain. Reinhardt held him there for a moment, then dropped him, blade and body and all to the ground, disgusted by both the man and his own actions. After a long moment of anger, grief, disgust and reflection, Reinhardt finally was able to move on. He took the man’s helmet so that he would never forget that day, and fled the Kingdom of Vaegirs. Originally fleeing to Nordland, Reinhardt continued to move around for the following twelve years, never returning to the Kingdom of Vaegirs. He regretted that he could not give his wife a proper burial, but he knew that if he ever returned he would found and executed. He continued his training as he travelled, eventually taking on the work of a freelance mercenary. His emotional wounds slowly closed, however he kept that helmet with him at all times, even coming to wear it when he got his own armour. He felt that he had to keep the helmet with him, so that he would never forgot all that he had lost that day. (Yes, I know the gap of 12 years is pretty large, but I can’t really think of anything substantial to fill it with, and I feel like I am holding you guys up a bit, so yeah.) |
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Post by Stelpher on Apr 8, 2016 23:56:32 GMT -5
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Post by Stelpher on Apr 10, 2016 20:23:50 GMT -5
Sorry, got caught up in an anime convention thing, will have my character done by the end of the day.
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Jackie
Child
Professional lazy grump.
Posts: 248 Likes: 23
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Post by Jackie on Apr 10, 2016 21:38:34 GMT -5
We aren't in any rush, I'm still stumbling through the history on mine.
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Post by aardvarklord on Apr 10, 2016 22:18:16 GMT -5
Basically, the plan we had going is that Jackie's gal and my steppe "bandit" are going to get into a skirmish and he'll take her hostage. My thought from there was that your guy could be brought in by one of two methods. Either A) Gwyn's father pays for your mercenary to help fortify the group that goes looking to recover his daughter or  your guy is hired by another nation (perhaps the Khergate or Rhodoks) to get rid of the "bandits" that have been harassing this area. Of course, that depends on which side of morality you want your guy to be on and how informed he'll be, because as you probably guessed these aren't bandits, just people trying to get enough food to survive. But of course, since neither is done, we're not exactly sounding the alarms  Also, other ideas are welcome. |
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Post by GuardsGhost on Apr 11, 2016 16:58:36 GMT -5
Name: Michael Fell
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Social Class: Noble
Profession: Knight
Allegiance: Swadia
Rank: Knight, Minor Gentry
Appearance
Height: 5'8
Weight: 167lbs
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Brown
Hair Style: He has a close haircut, in the old Calradian Empire fashion. (Picture the stereotypical Roman haircut)
Facial Hair: He's begun to grow out a beard, but right now it is just whiskers on his face.
Distinguishing features: He's known to go as red as a tomato when angered, and has a twitch of his upper lip that comes out when he's annoyed. Michael also has a scar at the top of his head, where a Khergit saber struck him oddly. It was considered a miracle that he recovered.
Attributes: (Strength, Agility, Intelligence, Charisma, just a rough idea of how gifted you are. And don't say you're excellent at everything; you might say you're well-rounded, but no masters of all aspects.)
Strength- Average. He's average for a Knight of Swadia, no real distinguishing size or strength to his name.
Agility- Good. He's reknowned for being quick on his feet, like most of the border lords who are used to long times in the saddle, ducking and weaving about in frantic paced combat.
Intelligence- Above average. He's known to have a quick wit and mind for things, and is able to see the bigger picture of maneuvers and decisions. He isn't considered the best, not nearly the best.
Charisma- Excellent. Michael is an ideal nobleman in this category, a firebrand when he's whipped up into speaking about something he's passionate on, but at other times a cool reservoir of dignity befitting his class. He's made friends from those of his class, and has won the loyalty of his small party of retainers.
Skills: He is a skilled swordsman and horseman, comfortable in the saddle like most Knights of Swadia. He is a proficient tracker as well, and a decent aim with a lance. His real skill however, is his natural charisma with his followers and acquaintances.
Training: From the age of six, he has trained to be a Knight of Swadia.
Equipment: Arming sword, Heavy Lance, Horseman Kite Shield, Mail armor with a Surcoat, emblazoned with the family's crest (a black Swadian Knight charging a soaring white bird on a red background), a Bascinet with Aventail (no noseguard)
Companions: Three Swadian Knights, and eight mounted men-at-arms.
Personality: A dignified young nobleman, fired up with the ideas of duty and vengeance. He is a border Knight through and through, equal parts ruthless and merciful, dignified and odd, unorthodox but loyal to the martial tradition he embodies. Michael is an affable fellow, unless he believes you've wronged his family in someway. He has a knack for knowing just the right tone to use with people, and is able to mediate disputes, or spark them up with his tongue, and settle them with his quick feet and sword. He is fiercely loyal to his family, and his benefactor, Count Delinard.
History:
The Fells are a recently ennobled family, having earned a small six room estate near the Khergit border and by the woods. The Fells guard their land jealously, and are constantly preparing themselves for combat against all comers. The Fells launch as many raids on the Khergits, as the Khergits launch on them, and have found themselves a benefactor in the Count of Uxhal, Delinard. Delinard has in general taken care of the family when their raids cause too much trouble, valuing them as a delicate link in the Kingdoms defense against the Khergit hordes.
To this end, the Fells are a martial family, and they have few servants about their estate. They recruit from the poachers and hunters of the woods, utilizing them as skilled archers, with themselves and their fellow noblemen acting as the quick shock cavalry to counter the Khergits charges.
The family felt dishonored when the sister of the Lord, and Michaels mother, was kidnapped by raiders and sold at Dhirrim. However, the man who bought her eventually returned across the border later with her and a child in tow. A few harsh words were exchanged, but as the womans previous husband had died in the raid that had claimed her, and since she seemed to have fallen for the Khergit, the brother gave his blessing, and the two sides of the family were reconciled.
Michael Fell is no exception to the Fell name. He is the current heir to the Fell estate and name, and a man who already has established himself as a complex and somewhat dangerous man on the border. He's fought several successful duels so far against quarrelsome neighbors, has led two successful raids into Khergit territory, and fought in the Khergits most recent raid against the Fells neighbors, slaying three men during that battle.
He had been fighting in a tourney at Uxhal to win glory under the eyes of his benefactor, Count Delinard, when his half-Khergit sibling crossed the border with the tragic news of their shared mothers husbands fate. Embracing his half-sibling, Michael swore an oath to the person whose blood flowed through his veins that he would help them gain vengeance. Michael finished in the tournament after being unhorsed in one of the jousts, and immediately set to work on gaining said vengeance. To this end, Michael has gathered up a party of ten men on horseback, his neighboring Knights. The group of eleven has separated from the half-siblings band, which consists of the veteran retainers and peasants levied into the force, going off on a mission to wreak havoc in the country side for the Khergits ahead of the advance.
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ThreeDawg
Administrator
Voice of the Wastes
Posts: 1,219
Likes: 33
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 12, 2016 1:51:52 GMT -5
I like your style, GG.
Ain't nobody got time to fill in a sheet.
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Post by Stelpher on Apr 12, 2016 6:33:13 GMT -5
That's actually GG's character right there. True fact.
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Post by Stelpher on Apr 12, 2016 10:18:54 GMT -5
Finished.
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ThreeDawg
Administrator
Voice of the Wastes
Posts: 1,219
Likes: 33
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 14, 2016 21:51:21 GMT -5
So I brewed this up in the breaks between uni lectures this week. I'll be using this character when I join.
Character BioName: Sarangerel, just Sara to westerners. Age: 23. Gender: Female. Social Class: Self-Exiled 'Noble' Clanswoman. Profession: 'Adventurer', Mercenary, Retainer. Allegiance: Her step-brother Michael, the Khergit clan Gijirra, the Fell Family (a few of them), (less-so) the Khergit Khanate. Rank: Scout, Light Cavalry. Appearance  Height: 5' 6". Weight: 129 lbs. Eye Color: Green eyes. Hair Color: Deep black. Hair Style: Long hair held back in a tightly bunned braid. Facial Hair: N/A. Distinguishing features: In Khergit society her green eyes are a very distinguishing feature of her Swadian admixture. Every where else, she's very distinguished by her Khergit features. She bares a number of battle scars beneath her armour, mostly from arrows. Attributes: Strength, less than average. She a Khergit, lean and hardy but lacking in muscles. Agility, excellent. Instead, she is swift and agile. Her flexibility is borderline gymnastic, the strengthening of which has become part of her daily exercises. Intelligence, very good. She's a clever girl, but lacking in any particular education. It makes her quick to learn new things, which she enjoys. Her intelligence really comes out in her ability to deceive and manipulate, something she has had to rely upon in her travels. Charisma, good. Naturally quite sociable, she's only being held back by a mistrust of others and lack of experience with other sociable people. Skills: Sara is very skilled in survival and tracking across a wide range of areas, having roughed it across the Khergit steppes, forested Swadian lowlands and the mountain valleys between the Khanate and the Vaegirs. She is an exceptional rider, having spent her life in the saddle. Like most Khergit, she is used to fighting from horseback and at range with a bow or spear. Dismounted she's an agile fighter, looking to run circles around heavier opponents waiting for an opening to strike. Training: She was trained from an early age personally by her father and grandfather, before their passing. War has been her other tutor. Equipment: Khergit-style armour and clothing made of leather accented with lamellar chest and leg pieces. Lacks a helm. Regularly wields a Khergit-style nomad's sabre and a compact bow (with barbed arrows). Keeps a double-edged lance strapped to her saddle alongside 2 Jarids. Saddles a thoroughbred steppe courser, named Ursgal. Companions: Regularly accompanies her half-brother, Michael Fell. No longer has a clan to call her own but is followed by a band of five veteran Khergits Horsemen, elderly men who were fiercely loyal to her father before his death. Has been known to accompany the Fell levies on their marches. Personality: She's a strong woman, a result of the relative equality granted to women in Khergit society. As she was growing up she was never told she was lesser than any of the men in the clan, that she would inherit her mother's yourt and her father's great standing in the clan as a son was not expected. As such she can come off quite haughty, believing her position equal to or greater than some of the men she comes across in Swadia - it rubs some of the Swadians the wrong way. This doesn't help her temperamental personality, quick to anger with those she mistrusts. As a believer in the apocalyptic Cult of Bloodied Yurig. The Cult espouses equality for all people, claiming that slavery is a weakening of the People and every person has a purpose for the People. To counter this idealism in a world of war, the Cult believes the People should be strengthened by killing their enemies in open combat to face what comes. They believe that the world is coming to an end, that the dark horde that pushed the Khergit people from the Eastern Steppe's are but a harbinger of their demonic horde. As a result she's a borderline hedonist, living "in the now" and looking to enjoy her life. She believes that her clan are unjustly enslaved in their current form, her ultimate goal being to free them and make them stronger to face the coming darkness. History: Sara's story began with the kidnapping of her mother, Tigraine Fell, by Sarranid slavers. They took her far from Swadia, away from her infant son, killed her husband in a midnight raid and stole her to Durquba. The woman lived a life of slavery, forced to work for the nobles that bought her. She served the tables of meetings regularly, and caught the eye of a particular Khergit Noyan of a small clan. Baatar Noyan was at court to mediate conflict between his nomadic clan and the local Sarranids. The Khergits wanted to avoid a war with the people, but the Sarranids wanted to keep what grazing lands they had for themselves. As such, the negotiations were lengthy and intense. Baatar spent months in the city. He wasn't a shy man by any means, although he was lonely - never having found "the one" and deciding personally not to keep concubines. So when he witnessed this Swadian servant he pursued her relentlessly. At first she rebuffed the man, she was after all still dreaming of returning to her old life. Yet as he continued his courting attempts, she found herself falling for him and the romanticised life he promised on the open steppe. Anything was freedom, she could always use him as an excuse to escape. He found she was a slave and as part of his negotiation attempts convinced the Sarranids to relinquish her as part of the deal. The two new lovers rode off when the clan moved off. She decided not to leave, not yet at least. Steppe life agreed with her, the Khergits were not the savages Swadian literature had painted them to be. Just under a year later, the Noyan was blessed with a daughter - and cursed by the damage it caused his love. The mother almost died giving birth, her body so damaged she would never birth again even after several attempts. He decided to continue forgoing traditions for his Swadian partner, never taking a concubine and accepting the girl as his sole heir. His family didn't agree, except his own father who himself had never brought a woman into concubinage. While the rest of the immediate family shunned the girl and the Noyan, the father and grand-father duo helped form her into what they hoped could be a great successor to the Noyan's claim. It wasn't completely unheard of for a woman to rule a clan, there was tales about it in stories and myths - after all women in Khergit society could do so much more for their clan than those in the rest of Calradia, including lead troops. But none had existed in living memory and the thought of this rubbed some clansmen the wrong way. When she was old enough to ride, her mother and father took her on the long journey to Swadia. A personal request of her mother, she wanted to see what remained of her old family. She was shocked to find her infant son, young Michael Fell, being raised by the rest of the Fell family. They welcome the woman back with open arms, although they were mistrustful at first of the Khergits she rode with. Father didn't stay long, trusting that the small retinue he left behind could care for his partner. He left Sara behind in this strange land, knowing full well that the call of the Steppe-Mother would bring his family home in time. The girl was confused by her "half-brother". She'd never had a sibling, and this one looked and smelt different from the Khergit children. They scrapped at first, got angry and didn't get along. As children do. Their adoptive family decided to turn that frustration into training, and the two would spar against each other even from this early age. From then on every year the mother and daughter would return from the Steppe to spend a few months in Swadia, and the two offspring would grow to trust and respect each other. They became siblings. As the girl aged she witnessed the death of her grandfather at the hands of a fellow clansmen back in the Khanate, the man had sought to strike at her before the elder had intervened in her behalf. He had won his combat, but died of his wounds soon after. Her father and mother were ever more determined to make Sara the next Noyan, an idealism that rubbed off on the girl. So they trained the girl to defend herself beyond what was normal for a Khergit, to lead troops in combat and to run the clan upon her father's passing or abdication. When the clan moved north into the richer valleys of the Vaegir, an adolescent Sara joined the tribe on the warpath. Their horses, after all, needed pasture and their clansmen needed ore and wood. She likes to think of herself as a veteran of these skirmishes, but in truth they paled in comparison to the larger wars waged by the nations of Calradia - they were regarded as little more than bandits to the Vaegirs. Either way, she became accustomed to taking life and it was through combat that she became drawn to the Cult of Bloodied Yurig. It was an old cult, built on the foundations of the Steppe-Mother Khergit religion with an emphasis on strengthening the People (the Khergits) for the coming apocalyptic battle. The cult's symbol was a dark star - a reminder of the omen that would spell the impending doom - that the girl had tattooed upon her upper arm. After the Khergits were eventually pushed back to the steppe by the Vaegir, tragedy struck the fresh-faced young adult that was Sara once more. Her father had been wounded in open combat and while he recovered, his limp would never heal - he could no longer lead the clan to his full capabilities. His choice to abdicate his title to Sara was discussed behind closed yourts, but little snakes whispered the words to the Noyan's brother. Uncle Jiochim had never liked Sara, had always seen Baatar's progeny as a waste of his father's legacy as the late-Noyan. His clan would be a laughing stock in the eyes of the Khanate and he could not accept that. In a fit of rage he demanded a duel of his own brother, a duel which he used to beat his wounded brother into submission. The majority of the clan looked on in shame, but the vocal minority that supported Jiochim cheered as he crushed his brother in combat. Sara looked away, unable to watch as her father was beaten within an inch of his life. A hand grabbed her shoulder, easing her away from the crowd of shocked spectators. "He will kill him." Her mother whispered feverishly, "Kill him, kill me, kill you. There is nothing we can do now, we must ride!" The two and a handful of her father's most loyal clansmen mounted their horses, grabbed what supplies and arms they could and fled the clan before the fight was finished. She did not see her father die, but by now she knew the sound of death screams that rang over the Steppe. The sound that haunts her to this day, accompanied by the face of her uncle. The Khergits made the long journey to Swadia one last time, arriving in the border marches to drop half-dead at the foot of the Fell family. They were taken in, unable to turn the two aside. They have been here ever since, Sara working alongside her grown-up brother with a fanatical loyalty she gave him and their mother. In her heart of hearts she wishes to return to the clan and take her rightful place, but that would be suicide. She was a savage exile, there was no way back for her... For now. |
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your guy is hired by another nation (perhaps the Khergate or Rhodoks) to get rid of the "bandits" that have been harassing this area. Of course, that depends on which side of morality you want your guy to be on and how informed he'll be, because as you probably guessed these aren't bandits, just people trying to get enough food to survive.
