-Name: Sindri Myr

-Age: 21

-Appearance:


-Gender: Male

-Background:
Sindri Myr was born the fourth son of the famed knight Sir Bastian; Unfortunately his mother was one of his father's servants rather then his wife and thus he was legally a bastard and unable to take on his fathers name or hold any claim to his holdings. Despite the fact that his father refused to legally recognize him as his child Sir Bastian permitted both Sindri and his mother to remain on his lands, allowing Sindri to begin training as a retainer knight to serve under himself and after he had passed his eldest brother.

The training was harsh, made even harsher by his status as a bastard child, but he persevered despite the struggle. While he wasn't the strongest or most finesse of fighters Sindri's trainers noticed that he seemed to have a gift for spotting openings, weaknesses and environmental advantages alongside the natural speed to take advantage of them, often to devastating effect.

Then the Saxons invaded. Sir Bastian and his three children swore their fealty to King Arthur and rode off to war, Sindri following them just like any other servant or retainer would have. Sindri was the only one who returned alive when the war was over, his speed and awareness of the battlefield around him having given him the insight to know where he needed to be for maximum effect and survival, fighting alongside several of the knights who would later go on to sit on the Round Table at one battle or another.

With no other surviving male claimants to Sir Bastian's holdings, Sindri pushed his own claim. Despite his status as a bastard he was able to successfully push his claim and take over his father's estate, greatly helped by the influence of several knights of the Round Table that he had fought beside during the war.

With the departure of the King and his most trusted knights, Sir Myr has come forward to aid the regent Sir Lancelot in maintaining the kingdom.

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.

Name: Lady Moire of Vedra
Nick Name: Lady Fury
Age: 30
Sex: Female

Appearance:


Lady Moire is a rare beauty amongst the dark haired peoples of Britain. Her blonde hair hints at her less than conventional heritage and her decision to wear it in intricate braids and knots common amongst warriors North of Hadrians Wall only reinforce her lineage. She regards the world eyes of an icy blue that always seem to twinkle as if she is enjoying some private joke when she smiles. When she becomes angry the colour fades to an almost smokey grey in colour.

The war in the north has made many things either unavailable, or impractical, and plate mail armour is one of this things. Heavy armour has little use in a region where fighting often takes place in wet or marshy ground. Lady Moire is armoured accordingly and wears reinforced leather equipment. She has set metal bands into her leggings to prevent someone cutting through her ankles.

When not dressed for war she can set a striking figure and has long been sought after by male suitors on both sides of the Wall, some even from Camelot. Despite this, not even her most hated foe coulee accuse her of wanton lustfulness as it is rumoured she takes no man, or woman, into her bed.

Bakground:
Lady Moire is from the savage northern regions of Britain. She was born just south of Hadrians Wall in a town called Vinovia, the product of a Brynaich raid in which her father raped her Angle mother. The young child of that unwilling union was born into a region torn with violence the likes of which had not seen in nearly four hundred years. Two peoples, widely referred to as the Picts and the Angles, no longer separated by Roman swords, entered into a bloody war that would decimate their lands.

Young Moire was loved by her mother despite her heritage. She raised Moire to hate the Picts, and to seek revenge on the people who had raped her and destroyed her own family. Moire proved an apt pupil and was taken as a squire by a local knight, Sir Oswold of Bamburg, his own sons and daughters having been massacred by the Picts. Moire learned to fight with sword and bow, on horseback and on foot, the never ending combat between the various peoples in the north bringing her plenty of opportunities to hone her skills.

The volatile nature of the North allowed for men or women of any birth to rise in rank, few noble lines remained even partially intact, or alive for that matter. Sir Oswold of Bamburg officially adopted Moire on her sixteenth birthday, knighting her the following day. The Saxons came shortly afterwards.

Lady Moire earned her reputation fighting the Saxons and Picts both. A brilliant tactical commander and soldier she forced defeats on numerous well known enemies, garnering even the admiration of the soon to be King Arthur. On several occasions she received invitations to join the Kings Court in Camelot but fighting in the north prevented her from doing so.

The war in the north has been a savage one and is rarely fought on horseback. Here, amid the high stone hills and deep forests a warrior learns to be lethal with a sword, spear or stave, and stealthy in movement. Fights are close, personal, and always fatal to one party. Lady Moire earned her reputation as a skilled and deadly opponent, appearing where least expected and killing with a ferocity that earned her the nickname "Lady Fury".

But, unbelievably, a fragile has peace came at the hands of King Arthur, at least south of Hadrians Wall at any rate. The various Angle factions have been united by the Pendragon and the Picts beaten so badly that they had retreated into the highlands. Sir Oswold, aging gracefully for a man in her fifties, has ordered Lady Moire south to support the Kings court while His Majesty is questing for the Cup of Christ.

Traits of Avalon:
∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: Your swordsmanship is the stuff of legend. An average foe that is at the tip of your blade can expect to taste its fatal bite.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.

-Name: Arian

-Age: 31

-Appearance: Not of an especially great height, but broad shouldered and well-built nonetheless. He carries himself with a certain measure of grace and quiet confidence. Dark hair tied back, clothing plain and bearing little in the way of ornementation – save for a silver medallion he seems to always wear about his neck, upon which is engraved the spiraling shape of an antlered stag in constant motion. His lips seemed creased into a perpetual frown, and any smile he might make tends to end up masked behind a thick beard. Still, he wouldn't generally be termed unhandsome – if perhaps appearing more than a little dour at the outset.

-Gender: Male

Background:

Generally a rather taciturn individual, Arian is the sort who speaks only sparingly of his past – though perhaps a bit of drink and the right questions would loosen his tongue a little. A Welsh warrior hailing from one of the countless little towns buried amidst the sprawling moors and rolling mountains, he learned the art of his craft from the days of his early youth, a childhood spent battling the Saxons in countless skirmishes and engagements. His past has seen all those he once knew and loved passed on to eternity, and whatever the future might hold in store would appear just as bleak. Still, he seems to have found some solace in taking up service with Arthur's knights in Camelot: the cessation of war, one might find, does not always leave a warrior's heart at peace.

-Intro:

Plumes of breath in frozen air; soft crunch of hooves in the grass – and the boy crouches, grey eyes wide as he studies the creature before him. White on white – a monstrous stag of silver-white, sleek coat all but shimmering in the faltering twilight. The boy exhales, rises to his feet even as he stretches a cautious hand forward. Creeping, stretching. One foot, then the next. The stag eyes him cooly now, head tosses in uncertain gesture: wicked tines of branching antlers slice through the air, ears flap and twitch. But the boy presses on. Another step, and then another, until finally they stand a mere pace apart – the boy and the stag – and he reaches his hand forward, lays a finger against the soft velvet of the twitching nose...

(I draw my hands from the stream, splash the cool water against my face. Scrub at the blood and grime. Watch the red blossom take life, go swirling away downstream. I grit my teeth, clench my fists and feel the stubborn pain. Stagger to my feet and eye the clearing; hazy sheen of a midsummer's afternoon, vivid green of the forest's growth right up to the water's edge, and a quiet woodland stream murmuring quietly to itself amidst the droning hum of insects behind. I blink. The -heat-! And the bodies. Strewn here and there. Haphazard – the finality of death bringing a a strange kind of calm to their features. Soon the flies will come, buzzing thick – but... with an exhausted grunt I find myself, too, collapsing against the trunk of a nearby willow, stretching my legs toward the water and tilting my head skyward... thoughts wandering far, far away....

To a time of blood and fire – and I am running, now. Sprinting across the barren moor. That odd feeling of calm before the storm; that uncertain certainty of finding myself observing my own actions rather than participating. Like watching through a dream, from a distance. And then the first of the enemy appear over the crest of the further hill. A great cry goes up. They scream! I am screaming too, I find – screaming even as I tear past their further edge, the dust and heat driving me to a frenzy as we crash against the unprotected flank. Sword and axe alike are moving with a deadly grace – and yet it is not me, I think. No. I am quiet. Serene. The great white stag grazing in the midst of a forested meadow. Flash of light – screams of the dying – and then--

And then I come to myself again. Thoughts still disturbed – like searching for a lost trinket through the depths of a murky pool. Blurry confines of an old and ragged hut; no one there – just me – and the fire's last embers have fallen all to ash and smoke. I claw hands through my eyes, try to rub the smarting blur from my vision. The air... too thick to breath. I feel myself beginning to suffocate.

“A future, you say? Look then to the past!” The words come unbidden to me now, and with a gasp I spring to my feet, throw aside the hide covering to the hut's entrance and step outside. My horse is there, browsing quietly amidst the wildflowers. My axe and sword lean against the wooden wall. I could not say how long I had been asleep. I do not think it mattered. I know only that I am alive, and staggering to my knees I retch, spew some bile to the grass even as I clutch the back of my head; the pain of an iron spike driving into the back of my skull.

But I am alive. I gather my weapons, haul myself into the saddle and steer a course away from the hut. Away from the madness. There is a place, I have been told – a place where a luckless man of my gifts and talents might find himself of use. A place called Camelot. A man at his wit's end will try most anything, or so they say.)

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.