Username: Jbcool

Character Name: Jan "The Cleaver" Batten

Race/Species: A Halfling of Mootland

Gender: Male

Age: 37

Career (if any) and Skills: A Halfling of many skills- from the more natural ones of stealth, light-fingered pilfering, being a dead-eye shot with a bow and arrow/sling to, of course, being a cook of almost unmatched skill...except by other Halflings. Although formerly an inn keeper-cum-chef, he is now a shell of that joyful Halfling, and instead wanders the Old World as a mercenary for hire.

Weapons: Trained in the traditional art of shooting a bow by his father, long days spent on the village green, he is able to hit just about anything that moves (or doesn't) from a considerable distance. As such, he is never without his sturdy oaken bow and a quiver of arrows, but this is no longer his weapon of choice! Jan prefers, to the dismay of many a friend and foe, to get up close with his enemy, wielding his two-handed butchers cleaver with the proficiency of an actual trained killer. Almost the same height as himself, and always sharpened to a razor-keen edge, it has become his trademark and his nickname as well.

Attire: Common Halfling travelling attire is what this fearsome warrior wears; starting from the top and going down, he is garbed in a simple brown travelling cloak with a hood, his head usually covered by a floppy tam O' shanter (look it up). The cloak is then thrown over a simple white shirt, made in the Empire, and over the shirt is tied a tough studded leather jerkin without sleeves. Around his waist is a thick belt with a dull brass buckle, holding up a pair of loose but rough brown trousers. As with all Halflings he is severely proud of his feet, not doing them or himself the honour of wearing shoes of any type.

Equipment/Other : Jan carries everything that isn't his weapons in a small back-pack, inside of which are a number of spices and herbs for flavouring, some sloshing bottles of sauces, a few 'snacks' for the road and more than couple of pans. The pans that he does carry are his 'old faithfuls', never failing to produce meals of sublime taste and wholesomeness.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): Standing at only three-and-a-half feet tall, Jan is not what you would call an imposing figure in terms of height.This he more than makes up for in other ways. Unlike almost all other Halflings he is not the red-cheeked and pot-bellied type, but rather a child-size wall of walking muscle that would make a Dwarf proud! The sleeves of his shirt barely contain the muscles of his arms, his torso like a brick placed on top of short legs, and his feet some of the hairiest ever seen on one of his kind, hairy enough to make any Halfling woman swoon.

Facially he would be considered 'gaunt' by Halfling standards, even though it is still full enough to look a little over-fed by the measurings of the Big Folk, eyes of green that used to sparkle now glare out from under bushy eyebrows of a brown so dark it is almost black in colour. Like most Haflings he has rather full lips, matched with a thin nose and thick sideburns that almost form mutton-chops on his face, all framed by that unruly mop of curling hair which all Halflings cultivate almost as much as the ingredients for their foodstuffs.

Lastly are his pride-and-joy, his feet; two five-toed marching machines with soles of skin so thick he can walk on sharp and jagged rocks in safety, a fine layer of hair much like that on his head keeping them warm in colder climates.

Mental Description/Personality: Damaged would be the best way to describe this tragic Moot dweller, his personality often swinging between fits of joviality and a deep depression. He is happiest when he is cooking or fighting, and is both a loyal and humourous friend for the majority of the time, but if threatened or disturbed he is capable of a much greater rash of violence than anyone would believe of one of his race and stature. Nevertheless, he has an affinity with nature, and with food, as well as an almost Dwarfish dislike for Greenskins...or at least the smaller kind. He believes strongly that food is a guiding light in a world of encroaching darkness, a sort of glue, if you will, that can make or break groups of peoples and creatures- but if food should fail to work, he is just as happy to use violence.

Background/History:

Jan was born to an average Halfling extended family, surrounded by nearly hundreds of relatives, spending his early years eating, smoking, cooking and hunting- as is standard Hafling fare for most of their life really. Yet not for Jan. For he was born in a small settlement called Plim Moot, a tiny place near the World Edge Mountains, at the mouth of a river that no-one outside of the Mootland would know, but that was quite open to attack from the various bands of Ogres and Greenskinned monsters which were known to take Halflings in the night if they weren't careful- such stories had been told to Jan and his many siblings since they were young...it was only later that he would come to know they were real.

Eventually, as all Halflings must, he found a spritely young girl and became her spouse, marrying her on a shining spring day and over time producing two fine children- one a girl and one a boy -topping it all off by opening his own tavern in the village, which was frequented by both the locals and travellers coming up and going down the river.

It was almost a decade later, having settled into his life and his comfortable routine, that it all came to a bloody and horrifying finale...

They came in the middle of the moonless night, hooded figures with sharp spears and curved scimitars, crooked green noses and gnashing teeth and glowing red eyes the only things that were visible as they swept into Plim Moot and massacred or enslaved the entire population present on that night at that time. Luckily his parents, and many Battens, were away in other parts, unluckily he and his family were not.

After being dragged from his bed, the screams of his family ringing in his ears, Jan was knocked out and awoke to find himself looking upon a scene of utmost horror.

It had been nearly a day before he finally awoke, groggy and unprepared for what he saw, thick bars of wood surrounding his naked self in his new cage; in front of him were a group of Night Goblins gathered around a frothing cauldron that bubbled and produced from it a smell that would make anyone wretch, but that made Jan vomit. None of the Greenskins noticed, too busy with their entertainment, chattering in their hideous voices and prodding something in the pot. Jan craned his neck to see what it was...and then wished he hadn't, for there in the pot floated the heads of his wife and children, an animal howl emerging from his throat and continuing until his vocal chords became sore and the Goblins had had enough of it, threatening to cook him next.

Never would he forget that moment, and never has he.

When he finally was released, a company of Dwarfs coming upon the enemy camp in a frenzy, and finding him before they had a chance to tear his flesh from his bones, they found a Halfling with reddened and puffy eyes from all the tears he had shed and that could not- or would not -speak to the

Seeing that he only wished to leave, they let him go. Jan wandering off into the world, fractured and broken beyond repair, though with his trained and inborn skills nonetheless intact. Using these skills he had managed to make a little money, to survive from one day to the next, but still not truly able to live.

Now he had plodded into Tilea, the very birthplace of the mercenary soldier, to see what he can see, and perhaps even find a reason to remain alive for just a little longer.

Username: POOHEAD189

Character Name: Sketti Hammerhand

Race/Species: Dawi (Dwarf)

Gender: Male

Age: 178

Career (if any) and Skills: Sketti is a master Engineer and Tinkerer. Being a slayer, he is no novice to battle, as fearsome up close as he is from afar with his firearms.

Weapons:
2 matchlock pistols strapped to his broad chest.
A long handled broad headed Axe attached to his belt at his right.
A thunderer rifle at his back.
Mechanical stump on his left arm that he can screw various things on. So far, he just has a wrench and a hammer head to his repertoire.

Attire: Sketti's upper body is naked, his leathery skin covered in blue tattoos of Khazalid. His belt is sturdy and well made, clad in links of bronze over its linen body to keep it together. The Dwarf wears hardy leather trousers and Enginner work boots below. He has two golden circlets that frames his beard at both sides, and one golden molar in his mouth.

Equipment/OtherPack of various parts and gunpowder to tinker with and create bombs or other utensils with.
Beef Jerky
2 pints of Bugman's he guards with his life.
1 pipe and a pound of pipeweed.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): Broad and supremely muscled, Sketti stands chest height to a man (except for his huge crest of hair that needs to be dyed again, for it looks more blondish gray now). His upper body is covered in blue tattoos written in Khazalid. His left forearm and hand has been replaced with a steel and bronze stump. Sketti sports scars crisscrossing along his chest and waist, and one along his right eye (though his eye is workable)

Mental Description/Personality:As most Dawi are taciturn, grim, and often bound by tradition, Sketti steps out into his own category. He has a respect for his people and their ways, but among his kin he is seen as an eccentric and a maverick. The slayer loves creating weapons and vehicles, thoroughly enjoying the satisfying sound of a bullet punching through a goblin's chest, or an explosive bomb tearing through an Ogre. He'll often get very reckless in combat, though of course, that is to be expected from a Slayer. Most slayer's however don't have quite the satisfied joy of when he kills someone in just the right way.
Sketti is talkative and often sly for his people, though he won't shy from being the voice of reason if need be, and talking down to the lesser races like an old veteran. Akin to most Dwarfs, he loves good beer and a good brawl, and a fine sheet of metal to shape into what he sees fit. And after a good fight (and explosion or two), he'll enjoy a nice pipe by a good fire.

Background/History: Hailing from Karak Kadrin, Sketti grew up a promising young Engineer in the Slayer Keep's army, building Gyrocopters and Organ guns and serving the local patrol as a Thunderer when war erupted. One such time in his latter career (right before taking the oath), his patrol was attacked by a band of Goblin Wolf Riders. He shot the Goblin Rider off a charging wolf, only for the beast to pounce on him. Hardy as the mountain stone, he gritted his teeth and reached for his pistol, using his arm as a distraction so the Wolf would not attacking anything more vital. Another Goblin approached from the side, about to take advantage of the seemingly easy kill. Sketti shot that Goblin instead of the Wolf, causing his arm to be a bloody ruin by the time he pistol whipped the beast away, before burying his Axe into the creature's huge head. He received an honor by the king for his bravery and survival skills. He became steadfast friends with a few notable Dwarfs, and eventually found himself with the position of Master Engineer of the Guild. Unfortunately, Sketti found himself unable to be competent overseeing hundreds of Dwarfs at work, much preferring to oversee smaller, special teams like he was used to. So he did, and one day his fool hardy experimenting went too far, causing a new quad-engine Gyrocopter to explode, killing two of his fellow Dwarves and injuring Sketti with shrapnel to the gut. He survived, but took the slayer's oath as recompense. He then embarked on his life as a Mercenary...

Username: Kingfisher

Character Name: Chengizz the Slick

Race/Species: Hobgoblin

Gender: Male

Age: 32

Career (if any) and Skills: Chengizz is infamously slick and nimble, possessing quick feet and a limber body. What he lacks in strength he makes up for in sheer, untarnished speed. He’s no scholar, but is cunning even by greenskin standards, and it's this opportune mindset that has allowed him to thrive, and grow into a formidable mercenary. He’s no fancy warrior practicing intricate fighting styles, but is instead entirely self-taught, having learned the art of battle solely from experience.

Weapons: The Hobgoblin’s primary weapon is a curved, scimitar-like blade, with jagged edges on one side and a smooth edge ,honed to lethal sharpness, on the other. Various knives are hidden beneath his clothes, fastened to straps and buckles, and he has a crossbow strung across his back.

Attire: Chengizz dresses in a combination of tanned leather, swathes of cloth, and spiked armour. He wears a plumed skull-cap over his pointed head, and hides a scale mail tunic beneath a dirty jerkin.

Equipment/Other N/A

Physical Description: Chengizz stands just beneath your average human, with a stooped back and features twisted into a feral sneer. His skin is a sickly shade of green, and is criss-crossed with cuts and scars from old battles.His teeth are long to the point of being too large for his crooked mouth, with their needle-like points bursting out from behind his lips. His eyes are dull and beady, glowing a faint crimson when they catch the light of the sun.

Mental Description/Personality: Vicious, cruel, and unbelievably cunning. Chengizz cares about no one but himself, and holds no loyalties other than to the gold in his coin purse. He’s no flashy war-dancer, and gets the job done with a simple, no-nonsense demeanor.

Chengizz knows his place in the world, and is smart enough not to run headfirst into a fight he can’t win. He’s quite the tactician, and isn’t above running away if it means living to loot and plunder another day.

Background/History: Born in the Eastern Steppes, Chengizz grew up beneath the savage dominion of Hobgobla Khan, fighting in a roaming warband of green-skinned bandits. His childhood was completely devoid of any form of luxury, as the stooped warriors scurried about the slopes and ridge of the East, picking away at the Divine Emperor’s supply lines whilst they made their way to up the Ivory Road and into Cathay.

Over the years, Chengizz and his motley crew gradually made their way west, through the Blasted Wastes, Badlands, and into the sunny stretches of Tilea.

The band of warriors was gradually whittled down as the decades flickered by, and as a result of this Chengizz began picking up members of other races along the way. After a few years the crew were fighting purely for self-interest, and started to establish themselves as prominent bandits and swords-for-hire.

Chengizz has spent the last five years or so fighting for coin beneath different Merchant Princess, but the day has finally come where he’s the only member of his gang of bandits still left standing. Given the circumstances he finds himself in, its time for Chengizz to find himself a new crew.

Username: Culluket

Character Name: Gobskag Greenteef, also known as Gobskag Da Great (also known as Da Great Gobskag). Pretty much everyone just shouts "GOBLIN!" at him, however.

Race/Species: Goblin (Plains)

Gender: Goblin (Plains)

Age: More than three

Career (if any) and Skills:
Da Really Little Waaagh! -- A petty Shaman, Gobskag has little to nothing in the way of damaging magic, dealing rather with hexes, disruptions, and dirty, underhanded tricks. Like most goblins, he is allergic to (and useless in) direct combat, preferring to knife the enemy in the back, preferably while they're face down in the mud. Underestimating him, however, has backfired before. Every greenskin has a level of base savagery in them, and Gobskag has more than one ace up his sleeve, wielding terrifying and lethal close-combat magicks such as Da Curse of Da Stabbed Froat: a dreadful hex cast with the sharpened end of a wooden, rune-carved wand. Woe to the opponent who lets his guard down at close range, for the curse is swift and terrible.

Any beneficial magic he attempts to use will mysteriously fail to work on stunties, or those with a stronger-than-usual hatred of goblinkind.

Alkhemy -- The fine art of potion brewing. Might also be "poison brewing". Or bomb-making. Not knowing which it's going to be is da best bit.

Cunnin' Planz -- Gobskag is loaded with cunning plans, some of which may actually be useful, and all of which involve tactics so dirty that just hearing them spoken aloud would make a Bretonnian throw himself on his sword. He also has a sixth sense for when things are about to go belly-up, and has usually pulled a vanishing act by the time anyone else figures it out.

Weapons:
Cursin' Stikk -- The requisite shaman's staff: The twisted branch of some unnatural tree, topped with a carven Scary Face and hung with tufts of untreated animal skin and leftover chicken bones. The end is sharpened and reinforced, so that the staff can double as a Stabby Stikk if the enemy is on the back foot and the Shaman smells an opportunity to get stuck in without excessive danger.

Gougin' Knife -- Those magickal reagents aren't going to pluck out themselves. Doubles as Treacherus Froatcutta when in proximity to turned backs.

Hexplodin' Bombz -- Beneficial potions that didn't quite pass muster as being actually beneficial. Some of them explode in clouds of foul vapors, others, fulminous balls of crud. What's important is, they're all dead magickal.
Gobskag has learned not to prepare these too long in advance, as the hexes are liable to leak down his robes, explode ahead of schedule, or get absent-mindedly mistaken for a refreshing beverage.

Attire:
Presently, Gobskag's orkkult robes consist of little more than a grotty, pointy-hooded sack crudely sewn together from differently-colored items of clothing looted from various battlefields, corpse-carts and unsuspecting merchants. But as his grand new career unfolds, he plans to embellish his kit, a little at a time, with the finest magickal-lookin' bitz the enemy has to offer, and changes will be reflected here.

Equipment/Other
Brewin' Bitz -- a small cauldron, a set of powders and some fire-makin' equipment, so that Reagents or concoctions can be prepared in camp, or in case he feels like cooking a rat.

Magickal Reagents -- Gizzards, eyeballs, live vermin, pouches of anything that might pass for useful.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Gobskag is a scrawny, hunched, shovel-nosed bastard, with furrowed, leathery skin the most unpleasant shade of puke green possible, and leering with a jagged grin of ugly, mismatched yellow teeth -- thus proving greenskins can't even get their names right. Beady red eyes glint shrewdly under a shadowy flour-sack hood, and drooping bat-ears, ragged from various close calls and squig bites, flop gormlessly out of its sides.

Mental Description/Personality:
Gobskag is a typical goblin. Which is to say he is a stupid, opportunistic, evil-minded coward possessed of an almost supernatural degree of low cunning. He learned to play cards explicitly so he could learn how to cheat and only has respect for authority to the degree to which it can bribe, beat or intimidate him into line, which fortunately any good commander easily can. Conversely, he is disgustingly obsequious to those with the upper hand, right up until the moment they're not watching anymore. Dealing with him is a simple game of carrot and stick -- he's clever enough to know not to bite the hand that's thumping the other guy. He'll kill more or less anyone, and doesn't particularly care what he gets paid in, as long as he has more of it than anybody else.

Background/History:

"What's amazin' about 'umies is, dey is tuff but not as tuff as boyz, which is da same fing as bein' not tuff really if you fink about it, and on top of that dey is dead lazy. An' some of 'em fink they're supa important an' don't wanna get no oog on dere pretty dresses, sort o' like Elfs, who is even weaker'n humies but not as lazy. So they'll pay youse to do dere fightin' for em. But I ain't got to the best bit yet: They'll even pay you ta fight uvva humies. An' you still gets ta loot em when yer done! Mork -- All dis time we wuz fightin' humies fer free! Dats what is called a free market ekkonamy, see? Oy! I feels ashamed fer me old lads what nevva learned this stuff. By which I means knob-'eaded gob-gits like you. Now hold still -- to get da magicks right I gots ter gouge dem eyes out BEFORE I bashes yer skull in. No 'ard feelins, eh? Heenh heenh heeeeeeenhh..."

Gobskag was once a member of the Scarey Face tribe, a somewhat pathetic warren of goblins without much to distinguish it from the countless others infesting the Badlands, ruled by a Shaman known as Screamin' Mog. The Scarey Face tribe had, in turn, quickly been absorbed into the swelling Black Bonez warband under Golg Grub-Mouth, a brutal orc marauder who took a special pleasure in plundering Empire trade routes.

While this was dead great, as it got them stacks of loot and constant, invigorating skirmishes with the outraged border princes, the internal politics were precarious. Golg Grub-Mouth was not a patient warlord, and Screaming Mog was a particularly vicious and paranoid shaman who regularly dispatched his underlings if his voices told him to. (His voices. It really was just him talking to himself in a squeaky voice, and he didn't pretend otherwise.) Gobskag was a bad position, even for a goblin. If he made himself any more useful to the warlord, Screaming Mog would kill him. If he didn't, the Orc or one of his seconds would almost certainly do it instead, and probably eat him afterwards.

The solution came unexpectedly when he was discovered a good way outside camp in the dead of night, where he had absolutely not been doing nothing remotely nefarious, by a band of very serious, dangerous-looking mercenaries. Gobskag was sure he was done for, and likely he would have been, had their commander not shrewdly proposed an alternative: Gobskag would be not only spared but rewarded, if he betrayed the Black Bonez and aided in facilitating a surprise attack.

Greed, treachery and the lure of revenge warred against the natural greenskin order of might makes right, and self-interest temporarily proved the stronger. Gobskag agreed, and promptly betrayed the mercenaries to his tribe, who erupted into open combat.

The mercenaries, being experienced dogs of war, had been ready for this, and a second company had flanked to the other entrance. Gobskag then double-betrayed his tribe by opening the gates, then betrayed the mercenaries again (I's bottled 'em in over dere, boss!), and finally when the chips were down and the battle hung in the balance, triple-betrayed his tribe, giving the free companies the advantage they needed to hew them down to the last and finally slaughter Golg himself.

The mercenaries had taken the goblin's flip-flopping treachery in good humor, all things considered. They laughed about it together, paid him his promised share, then tied him in a sack and threw it into the nearest bog.

As he hauled himself onto the bank, having escaped his fate via a series of cunning plans and improbable coincidences, Gobskag experienced a number of epiphanies. First of all, he was now official Top Shaman of the Black Bonez tribe. However, since he'd also just helped completely destroy said tribe, he unfortunately had nobody to brag to about it. More importantly, more magniffisently, he'd had a glimpse of something amazing. A whole world of possibility, that might just be everything a greedy, bloodthirsty, conniving little bastard like him might wish for. A little fibbing, a little sneaking, a little stowing away, and Gobskag was on the fast track to the bottom of a whole new heap in grand Tilea.

While his unscrupulous nature is a hazard, commanders experienced in real, honorless, bloody battle know all too well the value of a good wildcard, and that's exactly what Gobskag is -- a loathesome surprise for the other side. Greenskin magic, even the puny kind, is not something many foes expect or know how to deal with, and let's face it: When the sides are deadlocked and conventional strategy fails... nobody cheats like a goblin.

Having had a taste of what the world of the free companies can offer, he tends to view the greater mass of other goblins as primitive chumps, who wouldn't know a good thing if it stabbed them in the throat with a rune-carved wand.

Username:
HopelesRomantis

Character Name:
Pate Horth

Race/Species:
Human

Gender:
Male

Age:
17

Career (if any) and Skills:
'squire', though most just treat him as a servant in the company. He really just calls himself that to feel more important. He has a talent for growing potatoes, digging holes, throwing stones sort of accurately. He has a passion for cooking but no real aptitude for it.

Weapons:
A more intelligent farm boy would have stolen a bladed tool of some sort when he ran away from home. Pate is not such a farm boy so he chose a shovel. Its blunt, heavy and he can hardly swing it.

Attire:
Bits an pieces. His armour is composed of small scraps of metal he has stolen from battles all over the place with the company. He wares an ogres old shield like a backpack in battle, so that if it goes badly he can play dead and not be slain by a stray arrow. Under this he wears a large tunic bearing the companies colours which he looted from his long dead superior. His chest is guarded by a small metal plate hung over his shoulder and his arms and legs are largely unguarded. His prize possession is a Bretonian half helm, a little to large but he still polishes constantly.

Equipment/Other
Various cooking utensils, tent and several changes of clothes, mostly rags.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Weedy, thin and scrawny. His posture is slouching as he tries to make himself smaller to avoid calling to much attention. He is tall an lanky with short black hair he cuts himself. He is not handsome, but not ugly. His face is utterly unremarkable.

Mental Description/Personality:
Pate is not very bright, nor very brave. He has the self esteem of a caterpillar and views himself as a useless burden on those around him. Therefore he spends most of his time trying to help people. Unfortunately due to his ineptitude this usually has the exact opposite of his intended effect. In battles he is likely to hurl himself on the floor and pretend to be dead rather than fight. Though if pushed to the edge he can be surprisingly lethal with a shovel.

Background/History:
The story of Pate begins when he was born and nothing of any importance happens for about 15 years. At the age of 15 his entire village was utterly decimated. Every single building and crop razed to the ground for miles around while he hid in the basement. Had he being less of a coward and come out of hiding to fight the invaders like the rest of his family he would have realized it was a scorched earth mission by the empire and that he would have being safely relocated like everyone else. And thus he was stranded in the middle of a newly made wasteland.

In the battle that would later take place on those plains between the empire and an orc horde he played dead, utterly terrified. When it was over he was found by medics from the dogs of war company and taken back to their camp, assumed to be a wounded member of their force. He was never really officially welcomed into the force and stays only because he believes that surrounding himself with warriors will save him from the same imagined fate as his family.

Nowadays he is treated like dirt. He cooks, cleans, fetches peoples things, erects tents and digs latrines. The company would fall apart if not for men like him (or so he believes). Unfortunately men like him can be picked up at any farm town with a disgruntle teenager looking for adventure. So he puts up with the poor treatment, hoping one day to be one of the true warriors of the company.

Username: @Shorticus

Character Name: Bjorn the Bearblooded

Race/Species: Human (Norsca, Skaeling)

Gender: Male

Age: 34

Career (if any) and Skills: Bjorn is a hunter, trapper, and wrestler of bears. Yes, really. He makes for a handy man to have around in the wilderness. He's no ranger, but he's nevertheless as perceptive as he is huge and sturdy.

Sailing is a specialty of Bjorn's, and sailing is where he thrives. Others may be better fighters, but few people can handle oars or steer a vessel quite like Bjorn. He's been on a dozen different longships, and since then he's been on Empire vessels as well. To say that he's an experienced seaman is a grave understatement.

Bjorn's chief profession, though, is that of fighting, especially with an axe or sword coupled with a shield. He's a warrior born, having been a raider and attacked the Empire's lands long before he ever started working as a mercenary. Having fought alongside the sorcerers of Chaos, he also has good knowledge of their tricks and can share secrets on how to defeat them with his fellow mercenaries.

Weapons: Bjorn carries on his person a large battleaxe, two throwing axes, three javelins, and two different daggers, all of which are of Skaeling make. He has a worn scabbard at his hip in which he keeps an Empire longsword whose blade is emblazoned with the twin comet of Sigmar. He also keeps a large, round metal shield with a human skull cast at its center. Bjorn claims that putting the dead man's skull in front of him encourages bad luck to hit the dead man, not him. The skull has been chipped a dozen times over despite the iron cast.

Attire: Bjorn dresses in a mish-mash of Empire armor and Norse furs. His cloak is made from a massive, chaos-touched white bear, and his clothing was fashioned by rugged Skaeling hands. His armor, however, is rather typical of an Empire spearman: a metal breastplate bearing the skull emblem typical in the Empire. He wears boots, gauntlets, and pauldrons of similar make, though his armor seems to have been looted from half a dozen different corpses. On Bjorn's head is a horned helmet with an open face, the sort you'd find in Norsca.

Equipment/Other: A tinderbox, spare rations, rope, and two separate flasks from which to drink are Bjorn's other chief possessions. He also has a coinpurse, of course, but he doesn't seem to need much else. The man is used to much harsher climates than can be found in the south.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): To call Bjorn "big" would be an understatement. He's much like the bears he's named after: huge, broad of shoulder, hairy, and altogether a fierce sight to look upon. The Skaeling stands at a whopping 6'8" and towers over regular men (though not over men of Chaos) and has the sort of build that conjures up images of bodies being snapped in half like twigs. He's got his fair share of fat around his stomach - it helps him stay warm in the winter - but he otherwise is an imposing figure to say the least.

Most would describe Bjorn's face as "wild." He has a habit grinning enthusiastically at the mention of combat, and green eyes turn crazed and red when the fighting gets good, potentially a mark of Chaos. His red hair is long and unkempt, kept in check only by a series of braids that knot it up in a thick whip that goes down to the middle of his back. Bjorn's large nose flares like a bull's nostrils when he gets worked up. His beard is not nearly so long as his hair, and he's gotten into the habit of shaving his chin and neck, leaving a sort of upside down "U" to grow on his face.

Mental Description/Personality: One of the more interesting qualities of Bjorn is that he, like many Norsemen, has a rather eclectic pantheon of gods. Chief among the deities he worships are Mermedus (believed to be Manaan), Ulric, and Sigmar. He also calls on his ancestors for aid and on spirits of the north (which may be daemon princes). An Inquisitor would probably have a grand old time torturing him. Still, he's a religious man, and he respects all his gods rather equally, trying to curry the favor of each.

Bjorn is also a rather cheerful and rowdy fellow. He loves nothing more than fighting and following the bloodshed with a round of ale or mead shared with good, stout company. He particularly enjoys going up against wild beasts and monsters: the bigger the better. Most would call this typical of the Norse, but they might wonder why Bjorn isn't raiding and plundering as well.

Of course, there's more to the giant man than just drinking and fighting. Bjorn is a man who regrets much of what he's done, though he doesn't enjoy talking about that. He fights for money because that's what he's good at and because that's how he can see the world. And he sincerely does want to see the world, as much of it as possible, because in his eyes he can only redeem himself by walking across as much of it as he can and killing the biggest, baddest, meanest monster he can possibly find. He would, perhaps, sympathize quite well with slayers.

Background/History: Bjorn was born into a society from which the Chosen of Chaos are picked. He is a Skaeling, one of the Norse peoples of Norsca, and like most strong boys he was brought up to fight, to raid, and to plunder. It must he said that he was damned good at it, too: Bjorn used to collect fingerbones to commemorate his successes on the field of battle, each of them taken from a different enemy, and he'd worn them on a necklace to proudly show off his terrible skill at murder. In those days, he praised Khorne gladly. It's very likely that he would have become a Chosen of Chaos.

But he found himself face-to-face with a Warrior Priest of Sigmar perhaps eight years ago, and he was astonished by both the man's ferocity in battle and his raw tenacity. Bjorn had crippled and maimed the man over the course of the fight, but somehow he'd managed to muster enough will to defeat the Norse warrior nevertheless. Bjorn would have died then if not for a timely shot from an arrow by an ally. As he stood there, Bjorn realized that Sigmar's devotees were just as strong as his brothers, and so he began to respect and even revere the God among his others.

Bjorn continued fighting for his people for a year or so more before some of his fellows realized he had a small altar to Sigmar in his home alongside the shrines to the other gods. They also saw him watching how Empire soldiers fought, even mimicking a few of their moves. It was believed that he had grown soft and weak, and before long people that Bjorn had known for his whole life decided the best course of action was to throw him out into the wilderness and let him die in the wastes rather than kill him immediately. A death by the sword was too good for him, after all.

Of course, Bjorn survived. He had to kill a huge bear in the wilderness, which is where he got the fur to make his cloak. The exiled warrior traveled south and eventually made his way into the lands of the Empire.

Not much more needs to be said. Since then, Bjorn has worked as a mercenary in the Empire, fighting both on land and on ships. He's an experienced veteran with over a decade of experience. Any mercenary company would benefit from having this northerner around.

Username: Eisenhorn

Character Name: Siegmeyer Heilborg

Race/Species: Hochlander Human

Gender: Male

Age: 48

Career (if any) and Skills:
Outrider of the Empire: Before leaving formal military service for the potential for a far more lucrative career as a mercenary, Siegmeyer was a skilled and experienced Outrider, building upon his earlier years of experience as a Handgunner of the Empire. His horsemanship is sound, but not at all noteworthy, but his marksmanship, even at full gallop, is remarkable. Maintaining his own gear was a necessity, especially for the rare, but powerful, Repeater Pistols and handguns. As he was expected to train and lead Pistoliers he has knowledge of tactics and leadership, though he much prefers to leave that nonsense to another wiser head.

Veteran's Instincts: Men rarely survive long in combat, those that do have a few reasons. Skill, luck, the blessing of Sigmar, and Siegmeyer relies on instincts honed from years of combat. He isn't necessarily the smartest, fastest, or even the strongest, but when it comes to surviving in the field of combat, the former Outrider has a knack to be where and when he needs to be at the right time, often times without being able to readily explain beyond just getting a gut feeling things were going to fall apart that way.

Weapons:
Repeater Pistol - An ornate weapon, and gift from an old friend, that Siegmeyer carried on from his Outrider time, it eliminates the need for a rider to carry an entire brace of pistols by allowing him to fire off many times as many rounds as a single pistol without pausing to reload or draw a new pistol. Most of the useless ornamentation was stripped off, replaced with sturdier material to protect the inner workings, and considering the weathered look the remaining material has, the weapon has fired off more rounds than one might imagine. Reloading takes, again, many times longer than a traditional fire and discard pistol of a brace.

Sabre - Unlike the mighty greatswords of the Empire's infantry, or the sturdy and ornate longswords and lances of the Knightly Orders, the blade that Siegmeyer turns to when forced into a melee is a no frills, well forged sabre. While single edged and with a slight curve, it lends itself well to charging past an enemy, blade flashing and taking the head or limbs off whomever had the misfortune of standing in the way of the Outrider. It is a well maintained blade, with any chipping from hard hits repaired when possible to keep the blade as reliable as possible.

Attire: Siegmeyer wears the same half plate he wore when riding with the Outriders, with some modifications along the way. The breastplate of the armor bears a dark red coloration, with the ornate cross emblazoned on his chest being treated to bear a white coloring, reminiscent of the Hochland banner colors, red and white. The rest of the armor follows this coloration choice, personal to Siegmeyer. His right shoulder guard is missing, to promote freedom of movement for his right arm, the one that fires his Handgun, while he left the left Guard intact to help protect the side that often is faced towards the enemy when firing. He leaves the rest of his vambraces intact, removing the elbow plates to minimize the loss of movement capability. His waist is plated, as it moves very little, but beyond his greaves and upper plates strapped onto his thighs, he wears as little armor on his legs as possible to reduce weight and movement impediments. His helmet lacks anything that would obstruct his vision, a sturdy affair that lacks the ornamentation that one typifies with Outriders. Under his armor he wears a woolen tunic under his armor, for the purpose of arrows and softening blows from bludgeoning weapons that slam through his armor, while a tunic and well worn riding boots wrap up his attire.

Equipment/Other
Siegmeyer's Horse
Several Days Emergency Rations for himself and steed
Spare Powder and Rounds

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Siegmeyer is a man of Hochland, standing barely over six foot, and is hardly what most would consider an object of desire for the womenfolk of the land. His figure is sturdy, lean in the right places, for survival and warfare, honed from years of fighting the battles of the Empire. His face is scarred, heavily, from Chaos seized Hellblaster Volley Guns ripping his allies apart. He still manages a rough stubble of dark brown hair, with highlights of grey coming through, though, belying his age since the normal ability to tell by how wrinkled one was is unavailable through the scarring. His tired, almost hazy green eyes glare at the world around him, sunken forever from one too many sleepless nights fighting against the forces opposing the Empire. His torso is riddled with shrapnel and burn scars, more unpleasant reminders of his meeting with the Hellblaster, on the wrong end of it, but wiry and lean muscle ripples beneath thick scar tissue, assuming one might see any of this beneath his ever present half plate and under clothes. There are other scars, lost amongst those from the Hellblaster, but they pale in comparison. The rest of his body follows a similar pattern, his hair cropped and kept short as to prevent discomfort when wearing a helmet.

Mental Description/Personality: Siegmeyer is a consummate solider, first and foremost. Taking orders, executing them, and waging war come as naturally to him as breathing and sleeping might to other men, and it shows in his demeanor. He has seen the worst that war can throw at him, from the unspeakable horrors of the rampaging Northman and their daemons of Chaos, the Skaven under Empire during a Vermintide, to standing alongside the Dwarves against both Orks and Chaos Dwarves for the good of the Empire, and it shows in his commentary on the world around him, often likening them to the places he had seen during the war. The Conspiracy of Silence weighs heavily on him, and he often keeps comments on the Skaven to himself. He will teach others if they seek the teaching, otherwise, he lets them doom or save themselves, taking charge of a fight only when no one else can, preferring to ride as a flanking element and fight to drown out the memories than have to hang back, think on his experiences and how to apply them to the situation.

Out of a fight, Siegmeyer would much prefer the quiet solitude of the corner of a tavern, drinking in peace, to dealing with comrades in arms or celebrating. The former outrider doesnt need, or care for, idle boasting and celebration, he's seen enough of both to last him several life times. He'll keep to himself, maintaining gear and drinking himself into a coma, instead of share war stories and entertain the needless pestering of the younger ilk outside of teaching them how to survive in war.

Background/History: Siegmeyer Heilborg is an old hand in the art of war for the Empire, and he would rather not have to still be fighting. He was born in Hochland, his father a retired Handgunner Sergeant, who took his Hochland Long Rifle home, as his father's had before him. His family were hunters outside of serving the Empire, and experienced Handgunners of the Hochlander regiments when at war, and it was of little surprise that Siegmeyer would take after his lineage of family sharpshooters and steady hands. He was hardly the best shot there ever was in the family, that title went to his Grandfather, but he was naturally good at shooting from rather uncomfortable positions, and even as a child, would outride most his family while hunting. But, just as he was turning sixteen, the call went out for a new regiment of Handgunners, and it was the old man's pride to see Siegmeyer march to war with his family's Long Rifle.

The destination for the newly founded Hochland Handgunners was right in the path of a Chaos warband heading south for plunder and wanton slaughter. Siegmeyer would find himself entrenched in a castle against the encroaching warband, and it was a living hell of a mire of siege warfare. Siegmeyer was at least able to act, his Long Rifle able to reach out and force the besieging Chaos band to keep its heads down, the important ones at least, or risk having a new, unwanted hole in their heads. It was a long affair, with the crack of rifles and the sound of siege engines working, before the final crush of battle, almost a year later, was made as the Northmen breached the main gate. Both sides knew the day was coming, so both sides had made preperations.

Siegmeyer was with his regiment, posted up on a platform behind the main firing line the Handgunners had formed, with regular Swordsman, Halberdiers, and Spearmen forming a front for the Northmen to crash into. The plan was to break the Northmen's charge at the gate, where they were most funneled, and had deliberately baited the Chaos worshippers into the breach. They got half way across the courtyard before the order to fire was given, and the Handgunners scythed down the first wave in short order. They were barely able to reload and keep firing as the Northmen just kept pouring in, eagerly crawling over the bodies of their slain comrades, using them as shields, and smashed the ranks of the frontline in short order, forcing most of the Handgunners to run out of ammo in their sheer, panicked volleys. Siegmeyer, by virtue of being nearest the hidden exit, was thrown on a horse and told to warn the main army, which was on its way, the castle had fallen.

Siegmeyer rode long and hard, evading the pursuing Warband as they realized the alarm was being raised. He had neither time to sleep nor rest, and he drove the horse hard, firing back at the enemy whenever they had closed enough to be visible. He eventually evaded the Warband, riding into the main camp of the Empire's army rallying to push back the Warband, and after delivering the warning, collapsed from sheer exhaustion, the horse dead from the effort. He was noted by the Outriders, and after he recovered and rejoined a Handgunner regiment, he would take part in the retaking of the castle. It took another two years to formally crush the Northmen push south, and he would spend the next seven years operating against the Orcs and Goblins alongside the Dwarves near the mountains, fighting and picking off important figures in the Orc Waaaghs. He would eventually receive a visit by the Outrider who had escorted him to deliver his warning all those years ago with new orders.

Siegmeyer had been selected to join the Outriders, both for his hard riding years ago, and having continued to prove himself to the point it was considered that his survival hadn't been just a fluke, or blessing of Sigmar. He had to relinquish his Long Rifle, however, which was returned back home to his father with the explanation as to why and it was replaced with a Repeater Handgun, but alongside a Repeater pistol he procured alongside the rest of his equipment, he was surprisingly effective. He would ride at the flank of an Outrider band, or just behind the Pistoliers he was accompanying, using his position to make good use of the Repeaters as well as guide the Pistoliers properly. He made himself highly effective, and was more often found working alongside large numbers of fellow Outriders than leading Pistoliers, and he was here when he found himself facing Chaos again.

The Northman had already overrun an army with the favor of several Master Engineers and had seized quite a few siege weapons, including a battery of Hellblasters. Siegmeyer and the Outriders he was with were attached to a large Army to obliterate these Northmen, not merely drive them off, and either recapture or destroy the siege weapons before they could be used to serious damage. The battle was met on an open field, initially favoring the Outriders black powder weapons as they flanked the main Northmen army, pouring Repeater fire into their flanks. Each attempt by the Northmen to flank the Empire's army failed, turned back by the Outriders, and it seemed like they hadn't the means to operate their stolen siege weapons. But, Sigmar was not with them when the Hellblasters opened up.

A false flank had drawn out the Outriders again, straight into the waiting maws of the siege weapons, which obliterated all but a few Outriders, and only Siegmeyer was able to drag himself back to the Empire's battle lines without being captured. Within a day, any living Outriders from the attack that had been captured were strung up on the eight pointed stars of Chaos, screaming in constant agony until they, blessedly, died. The Northmen would be repulsed, but Siegmeyer was in no condition to help until he recovered, after the battle was done. The next few years Siegmeyer would serve to train nobles who were seeking to be Pistoliers, until his 45 birthday when he decided the professional soldiering life was a road he was tired of walking, still haunted by the batteries of Hellblasters blasting his fellows into pieces.

Siegmeyer left for mercenary work, since he found himself unable to readily put his daemons to rest, figuratively speaking, and just quit making war. He figured he could fight as a mercenary for awhile, get a nice chunk of money set aside, and be able to retire and spend the rest of his life back home in Hochland, entertain his older brother's kids perhaps, as he had forsaken ever having a chance at finding a wife with how badly the siege weapons had scarred him. He would make his name serving as a skilled mercenary cavalryman, providing often well needed mobility to whomever had the coin to afford the high costs of the former Outrider, who charged accordingly for his services. He would spend up to his current age as a mercenary, and would continue to do so for some time, as he wanted to have enough coin to not have to work again.

Username: BCTheEntity

Character Name: Baecion

Race/Species: Asur (High Elf)

Gender: Male

Age: 213

Career and Skills:
Baecion is a wizard, first and foremost, with all the skill that implies. More specifically, he is a wizard in training, currently focusing upon the Grey Wind of Ulgu, the so-called Lore of Shadows, prior to his eventual education in the Tower of Hoeth in the High Magic of Saphery called Quaysh, though he is knowledgable about a wide variety of subjects on account of his magical inclinations. Thus far, his skill is such that he would only be considered a journeyman by human standards, albeit a high-end version of such nearing the next step of his training as a master (comparative to humans, anyway); this, however, is largely because he has also been training himself in swordplay alongside his magical abilities, seeing both as necessary to remain alive and well as a wandering elf. Said swordplay is decent enough to have kept him alive up to this point, though his magical abilities often contribute to his successes and those of his allies; as a facet of his present magical allegiance, he is also surprisingly skilled in concealing himself and his allies in mundane fashions.
Known spells originate from the following documents, their passages chanted in either Lingua Praestantia (Magick to the common folk) or the more complex Anoqueyan (a.k.a. Arcane Elf), though are limited accordingly by his magical capabilities:
khorne.ru/2nd/wfrp_web/Core.pdf (Pages 148 (Petty Magic: Arcane), 150-151 (Lesser Magic, specifically Aethyric Armour and Silence), 159-161 (Lore of Shadows))
khorne.ru/2nd/wfrp_web/Realms_of_Sorce.. (Pages 164-168 (Lore of Shadows))
1d4chan.org/wiki/Warhammer_Magic (Lore of Shadows)

Weapons: A long straight wooden stave of around five and a half feet in length, with the last foot or so instead being made of steel, topped off with beautifully-detailed dragon's wings near the base of this section, with the overall impression of being an ornate traveller's stave. It would appear to those of greater perception that the metal construct is intended as a magical focus; in actuality, the stave conceals a metallic "scabbard" holding a four foot sword, typically held in place by metallic rods extending from the wooden stave, then drawn and held below the crossguard wings, and the stave itself flipped over for use both as a casting implement and a club, as the solid end also contains a heavy lump of metal for this purpose.

Attire: His attire is rarely more complex than relatively light clothing, albeit clothing of the sort a fairly successful travelling merchant might wear - a blue-dyed shirt and light leather trousers, as well as reasonably-weighted travelling shoes, fingerless leather gloves, and a hood to cover his head. One might fail to recognise him as a wizard and mercenary, but for his stave (and even that is typically passed off as a somewhat-ornate traveller's stick), and for the leather helmet and sleeveless jack he wears to provide the maximum possible amount of protection without limiting his ability to actually move about and cast spells, with the incidental benefit of disguising his elvishness at first glance.

Equipment/Other: Baecion often does not equip too much additional gear beyond what his sword, sorcery and coin cannot already do for him. However, he tends to take with him essentials to spare - amongst other things, he carries several week's worth of rations and pre-boiled water in the appropriate containers, apparently for five or six other allies as well as himself, plus a bedding setup of two blankets and a particularly large, lightly-weighted wind cloth that as many people could comfortably lie under when set up like a tent over a tree branch. Finally, he has a few appropriate magical unguents and trinkets to help with the casting of certain spells, though his confidence tends to err against not using them unless it is absolutely necessary.

Physical Description: Even for an elf, the life of a mercenary shows. At 193cm tall, Baecion is possessed of a lean but nevertheless muscular figure, yet retains platinum blond hair down to his neck that seems to be naturally soft, almost silk-like in texture, and bright blue eyes, with a reasonably handsome, pointed face that is quite unscarred, perhaps surprisingly for one who has been in the role of mercenary for so long (though his expressions tend towards hardening his features somewhat). Not so the case on the rest of his body, which holds a minor cornucopia of healed-over gashes, burns, and other injuries rather too numerous to list, most mercifully hidden beneath his clothing; the most obvious indicator of his lifestyle is his left hand, from which his pinky and ring fingers have been severed halfway down, and the middle finger left severely scarred at a similar point, though oddly enough, a single fingernail seems to have fallen out and just started regrowing on his right hand. Somewhat more noticably, his very presence seems to draw in any vapour in the area and cause nearby lights to flicker and dim, lending an air of mild menace to him at the side of a campfire or in a fog bank, but simply leaving him smelling of smoke otherwise.

Mental Description/Personality: Baecion has spent decades in battle of all sorts - against physical foes, through magical prowess, and occasionally on the spiritual level too. Naturally, whatever personality he had before his mercenary/wizard life began has been wiped out, replaced with an exterior that is cold and unmerciful and mildly enigmatic all at once. He has only rarely been in the company of his own kind for much of this time, such that whilst he remains at best generally dismissive of most members of other races, he is at least fairly knowledgable about most human cultures and those of certain other races, enough to be exceptionally cautious about both his own race and occupation whilst in the presence of those he does not know well. That said, he has learned to value an ally well, at least up to the point where betrayal occurs against him, and keeps close to his heart the few friends he actually makes, to the point that he continues to privately mourn those he has lost over the years.

Background/History: Baecion was born into the Ulthuan realm of Avelorn, a veritable fantasy land (at least to those not used to its flora and fauna) for its association with the Everqueen, and indeed one of the most peaceable areas in Ulthuan that an elf could be brought up in. In other circumstances, Baecion may have become just another poet or artist amongst the civilians, and perhaps in time found his way into the Everqueen's royal court; however, his fascination with magic was sparked, and indeed forged a major part of his personality from then on, when he spied one of his people's High Mages performing their art. He thought it the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and promised himself that one day, he too would be capable of such feats of magnificence. To that end, he began to practice the magic of Ulgu alongside a local mage, but eventually found himself wanting to follow a more hands-on approach. And what, he reasoned with himself, was more hands-on than the life of a travelling mercenary? Acquiring a blade and some training with it - though it would later be replaced with the commission-crafted stave-blade he holds in the present day - he set out from Ulthuan at around the age of 100, ready to make a mark on the world beyond his island home.

This proved to be a mistake on his part. Though he himself was skilled enough to not perish in battle, and only grew more skilled over time, he had a tendency to find himself part of mercenary groups whose members died far more often than not, and those who were left rarely thanking "the skinny knife-ear" for his assistance. Thus was a truth of the world revealed to him: reality is cruel, and the people of the world crueler still to those of his race and occupation. Over the years, allies were made and lost, groups formed and shattered, and Baecion's magic grew ever stronger, and his skill in its use ever greater, though even he was not always immune to its detrimental effects.

Two particular sets of allies stand out in his mind to this day. The first is a small contingent from his third group, consisting of another elf and, oddly enough, a dwarf. Though the two elves banded together and judged the dawi at first, the three soon found themselves closer than they might have anticipated thanks to various unlikely events, and remained good friends for an extended period of time, though eventually, death forced the group apart - first the other elf, and then the dwarf, leaving Baecion alone and grieving for a time.

The second set of allies stems from his most recent group, joined a mere six years ago. A mixed bunch of seven people, some from races that Baecion might not have willingly teamed up with as a fresh adventurer, and to be fair, rather few of them were glad to team up with him in the first instance. In particular, a female Reiklander seemed rather unable to avoid focusing her ire toward him - though he tried to remain calm and civil, her needling at first found itself getting to him more often than not. Over time, however, he found that the mercenary band did not collapse through repeated deaths of its members, and the group became ever closer as a result; in particular, the Reiklander steadily became less hateful of Baecion, and it eventually happened that they became particularly close even by the group's standards.

Sadly, the team was broken apart some few months back, when they tried to bite off more than they could chew - a "small horde of forest-dwelling Beastmen" that turned out to be substantially larger than anticipated, with the end result of nearly every party member being slain and consumed despite a grand effort on all fronts. Even the Reiklander, easily one of the more skilled party members, was only saved thanks to a well-timed use of The Enfeebling Foe by Baecion, and even then, she remained wounded in a way that might have been mortal if not treated. Fortune favoured them, though, and Baecion barely managed to escape with his life and that of his friend, and in turn discovered in the forest a small commune of Shallyan priests and Jade wizards willing to tend to the Reiklander's wounds for a sum, though the healing process would not be a surefire thing, and in any case weeks that Baecion could not afford to remain were sure to be spent on the process.

With a heavy heart, he left his last remaining ally in better hands than his own. Time passed, and he couldn't bring himself to return to that commune for fear of what he might learn there, nor to join a new group whilst his old one lingered in his forethoughts; he instead occupied himself with various odd jobs, earning small sums for small deeds, until he one day came across a slip of paper describing possible riches for those who were not afeared of death. By this time, the prospect of dying hardly fazed Baecion, and so he travelled to nearby Tilea and the province of Guilmuero, there perhaps to meet his fate.

Username: Maxwell

Character Name: Thag the Unwieldy

Race/Species: Ogre

Gender: Male

Age: 39

Career (if any) and Skills:
As an ogre, Thag is a natural fighter with an innate talent for causing spectacular damage to everything around him - sometimes even when he isn't trying. He has sailed the Old World's western coast from Sartosa to Erengrad, variously as a stevedore, deckhand and seaman, depending on how much his captains felt like paying. He can swear, demand food and threaten thinlings with violence in eight different languages (not that he can count that high).

While the finer points of sailing and navigation will forever elude him, Thag is a master of stowing goods, pulling the right ropes at the right time, and scaring off would-be attackers with his mere presence. He might not be the most elegant creature on the high seas, but he floats well, and falling overboard isn't much of a concern when you can climb up the hull of a Man O' War with nothing but rage and a blunt dagger.

As a staunch admirer of ogre culture, Thag is also an accomplished amateur smith; in the way of ogres, he has a knack for turning unassuming scrap into moderately functional pieces of gear, mostly by bashing them together until they assume a useful shape. After all, it's not like you can expect a weedy human smith to make a proper gut plate.

Weapons:
A chunk of mast strapped around a large anchor.

A pair of marlinespikes.

Attire:
Various fishing lures, shark teeth and small knives as body piercings, and a hook hand for an earring. A large ship's helm covered in scrap metal as a gut plate. A tiny vest and a pair of badly worn pants.

Equipment/Other:
Thag doesn't carry much, on account of him being poor and recently shipwrecked. He is sure to pick up anything valuable, damaging or shiny he can get his hands on, though.

Physical Description:
Thag is an ogre, with all that brings with it. Just shy of ten feet tall, he towers over ordinary mortals, and is at least three times as wide as a man. His limbs resemble tree trunks and his hands are the size of dried hams, their palms thick with callouses and knuckles heavily scarred. A lifetime spent toiling under the hot sun has tanned his skin to the colour and consistency of leather, where it isn't pale with old scars, or pockmarked by left-behind grapeshot and shrapnel. Several of his teeth and nails are missing, and his nose has obviously been broken on several occasions. On one cheek, he carries an Imperial tattoo artist's best impression of the symbol of the Great Maw, a terrifying torrent of teeth spiraling into a bottomless pit - Thag was disappointed to note it looks nothing like the traditional image of the Maw.

Sadly, life on board a sailing vessel is not conducive to overeating, and Thag is laughably thin by ogre standards. His jawline and adam's apple can still be made out within his neck flab, and his upper arms hardly even slap against his sides when he runs. Equally laughable is his gut plate, made out of a simple ship's helm with a handful of trophies strapped across its spokes, the whole thing held in place by half-rotten rope. He carries himself with the same general air of humorlessness and martial pride as most ogres do, until the violence starts and his face contorts into a yellow-toothed smile.

Mental Description/Personality:
Ogres are not the most astute creatures, beyond perhaps a certain animal cunning, and Thag is a model example of his race in that regard. Driven by greed, hunger and a lust for violence, he possesses little in the way of ambition, and only a very simple kind of initiative - if a problem cannot be immediately solved without violence, the solution must indeed be violence. He loves to eat, drink and fight, and while he has learned to abide the ways of thinlings, with their laws, politics, hierarchies and money, he admires the simpler ideals of the Ogre Kingdoms - the thought of following an almighty tyrant into battle fills him with a longing he can't quite describe. Having sailed the high seas for nearly half a century, he is sick and tired of water and ships, and would like an excuse to wreak some havoc on dry land. Last but not least, he suffers from an entirely unwarranted sense of insecurity over his physique, and a slightly less unwarranted worry that he might die before he achieves the bulk of his dreams.

Background/History:
Born after a chance meeting between two wandering ogre mercenaries, both come from the Mountains of Mourn to make their fortune fighting for the thinlings. Growing up, he watched as they killed and bullied their way across the Empire, and listened raptly to their tales of the ogre kingdoms - its harsh, unforgiving mountain ranges and the ogre tribes that ruled them. Their tales were numerous, fantastical, and oftentimes wildly exaggerated, and Thag loved them. Thinling society was a complicated mess of rules, trickery and secrets, but in those mountains, it seemed, life made sense. He came to idealize the ogre kingdoms, and though the realities of life forced Thag to adapt to the customs of the Old World, he resolved to emulate the traditions of the ogre kingdoms whenever he could.

After a little over a decade of mercenary work, Thag's parents finally went their separate ways, one sailing west with an Estalian explorer, one heading east with a Great Caravan, along the Silver Road to Cathay. As neither employer wanted a child along - even an almost-grown ogre whelp - Thag was left on his own in Marienburg, where he was immediately snatched up by the guild of stevedores and teamsters. A few years and countless bashed skulls later, Thag was among the guild's most valued members, doing the work (and committing the violent crimes) of an entire team by himself. He had all but settled into his cozy, simple lifestyle, and might very well have remained a small-time thug if a passing navy captain hadn't recognized his worth. An offer of a year's worth of gold per month, and plunder and food besides awakened Thag's wanderlust as much as his greed, and though the guild were most unhappy with his decision, Thag left to sail the sea of Claws in defence of Marienburg.

Many years of adventure followed, with Thag trading ships as greed and whimsy dictated until an unfortunate shipwreck saw him washed ashore outside of Miragliano, just in time a new call to battle.