Name: Fortune De Vigny

Age:
16

Race:
Human (Bretonnian)

Profession:
Knight Errant

Equipment:
A suit of 'lesser' plate armor.
A sword and shield with the De Vigny crest.
A noble horse.

Personality:
Despite being of noble birth, Fortune De Vigny seems to be an exemplar of empathy in that he seems to show a degree of respect for those who are not of noble birth and is happy to fight on foot beside them. He is as tight lipped about his past as he is with his wallet, rarely spending money if it can be avoided, but he at least makes the effort to be polite and friendly to those around him... unless he has logical reasons to not be.

While he is brave, he is not suicidal; There is no shame in withdrawing to a stronger position if pride is the only thing keeping you there after all or avoiding a pointless battle if other objectives are more important.

While he has never seen them for himself, Fortune has been raised for a deep hatred of Greenskins, Beastmen and the Skaven; The fact that he has lost just about everyone he knew and loved to illness has raised the Skaven up on the list of things he hates due to their history of using plagues so they wouldn't have to fight brave solders.

Due to his own brush with death and the deaths of those he cares about, Fortune is quite paranoid when it comes to illness and plague; They are both honestly more frightening to him then any armed enemy that he can fight could ever be.

Appearance:


Fortune De Vigny outside of his armor isn't exactly the picture of a Bretonnian knight that the stories and tales talk about; He survived the illness that swept through the De Vigny estate that laid low both of his parents and almost all of their servants (with the exception of those disloyal cowards who ran away) but he appears more akin to a decently fed peasant then that of a noble born due to how the illness pocked the skin of his face and weakened his body. He has managed to recover a lot of his former strength through.

His eyes are a light blue while his hair is a messy brown/blonde color. His skin in a tanned white that still shows the signs of the damage the illness did to him months ago.

The De Vigny crest he wears is a shield colored blue and white with a black cross dividing it into four sections. At the center of the cross is a unicorn, raising up on its back legs as if trying to kick something in the face with its front hooves.
Bio:

Fortune De Vigny was born to the De Vigny noble family; A lesser noble family in the eyes of the major players but a noble family none the less. Shortly after his birth, his father (Lord De Vigny, Knight of the Realm of Bretonnia) hunted down a band of bandits that had been plaguing the roads of his realm. Wiping the bandits out with his small band of trusted men while they were picking over the remains of their latest ambush, Lord De Vigny discovered a young baby that was barely older then his own boy who had been orphaned in the attack. Deciding that this was a sign of the Lady of the Lake, he took the child with the intention of raising him as Fortune's personal servant and bodyguard.

Fortune and Andre grew up together, their relationship as master and servant clear to them and everyone who saw them but they were at least as close to friends as their respectful social standings would allow. While the both of them underwent different teachings and training for their respective roles in life, the two of them often got to spend time together when it came to horse riding and combat practice. While Fortune was always the better fighter (What with him being trained as a knight while Andre was being trained as a yeomen), Andre was good enough to at least put up a decent challenge to help him improve himself.

Tragedy stuck the De Vigny family shortly before Fortune was meant to be introduced to noble society; A plague ran rampant through their lands and estate, laying low almost all in its path. A small amount of the servants fled, but most stayed and died from the illness alongside their Lord and Lady. Fortune himself caught the illness as well, Andre staying by his side despite the danger to take care of him during this dark time. He did not forsake his duty, even when he caught the illness himself he forced himself to solder on for the sake of his master.

By what could have only been the divine blessing of the Lady of the Lake herself, Fortune managed to survive the illness and recover. His attempts to care for Andre however were not as effective; His loyal friend and servant died shortly after his own recovery.

Once he was strong to don his armor and fight again, Fortune De Vigny took his horse and rode off as a Knight Errant, seeking to earn his place as a Knight of the Realm and claim the lands of his father for his own.

Reason for joining:
Fortune De Vigny seeks to earn enough experience and renown to earn the title of Knight of the Realm of Bretonnia and thus secure his inheritance. He also plans to earn himself a great deal of wealth in the process in order to have a much stronger influence then his father did.

Terrible secret:
PM'ed. I like to think it's a good one.

Age: 449

Race: Dawi

Profession: Dwarf Ranger

Equipment: A long scoped Dwarf Handgun with a sling, lots of powder shot and cartridges, three throwing Azes, hand-Grund (hammer), and a miner's blasting charge. If heavy combat is expected, he will bring along a cinderblast bomb, ranger's cloak, small medical kit and most importantly; his personal book of grudges.

Personality: Just slightly senile, he is not exactly a typical longbeard. He has spent his life grumbling, looking to the old days, and arguing with other Dwarfs, and does not wish to spend his old days like that. He is a relatively friendly chap, always ready to share some Bugman's be you umgi or halfling, and does not even hate elves too much, rather just carrying a mild dislike and wariness. He wishes to go around and see more of the world rather than just his relatively sheltered albeit wondrous home of Everpeak. He wishes to go where no Dawi has gone before. He is quick to see people as "friends" and becomes very protective of them.

Appearance:

He is relatively tall for a Dwarf at 4ft, which would be a whopping 4'6 if not for his hunch. He has a surprisingly short beard for a Dwarf that is only fifty years from death, and it is well if slightly unevenly trimmed; he does not let anyone else touch it, and has difficult if he does not have a mirror available. His eyes are a milky green, although still very keen and always twitching left and right on the lookout. His facial hair is white, while his head despite balding extremely quickly still retains a few black hairs. He will often have impermanent tattoos on his body to make goblins and such have difficulty seeing him in the woods, knowing that mere paint comes off in the rain and such while dirt is unhygienic. Both of the parts of his ear where one would usually get a piercing are burned off. He will wear a leather jerkin and pants with naught but his (extremely thick) cloak over it, although his boots are great steel capped things to give his enemies a good kicking.

Bio:

Brokk was born into a family of Dwarf miners who were very lucky finding a seam of Gromril, and successfully guarding it from the Skaven that wanted the warpstone found near it (although this was no difficulty considering they live in Karaz-a-Karak, the wealthiest of the Karaz Ankor). However, when his father was forced to take him through the surface to get to another mine-shaft he saw the wonder of the surface, and decided he wanted more.

At the mere age of 45 he left his crying parents home and went to the nearest Ranger outpost and became one of them. While young and naive he soon learned the ropes of wazzock-slaying. He wielded an az well, and a crossbow better. He was taught the more intricate means of destroying enemies of the Ever-lasting realm, setting up boulder traps, making improvised bombs, so on and so forth.

Eventually he became the leader of his Ranger outpost, so he began to oversee a much larger area. After successfully trailing a band of forest Goblins with his fellow Dawi his travels made him end up at Zhufbar, where his lads took short refuge. At his second day of respite he saw a lassie he fell in love with at first sight. When he approached her the two enjoyed speaking with one another, and kept doing so for a whole day. When Ghammarad confessed his feelings however, she said she was the daughter of a prominent Thane and thus he would have to ask his hand in marriage. When he approached him, he was laughed off for being a ranger but had the Thane's attention when he said his family were Gromril miners. He asked for proof, and Ghammarad obliged.

However, to his woe he returned to find the son of the resident Lord to be going to marry the girl and he was heartbroken, especially to see such an incompetent, fat and carefree Dwarf get her hand in marriage. He discovered a week later that he was killed under strange circumstances, and he took his chances after waiting for the grieving to end. He obtained her father's agreement, and then took her out to one of the underground pools of blue water. Just as he was about to propose a green shot went into her, and several more followed. Skaven jezzaillers had unleashed a volley and a massive attack followed. When the battle was over he had nothing left to do but return to his post and toil on miserably.

When Ghammarad became 400 years old he had finally stopped his self-pity and loathing and decided to get a grip on himself. He returned himself to peak physical shape, cleaned himself up and joined the nearest longbeards going to fight the enemies of Dwarfdom. For fifty years he cleaved, shot and smashed his way through Skaven and Goblins in the underway, until there seemed to be a short-break in the fighting. He realised that he had nothing to do and searched his memory for what his childhood dream was and remembered: it was to see the world, and so he did, going to a strange artifact collecting man to work and travel.

Reason for joining: He wants to not only see the world but experience it. As far as he sees, this is the best way.

Terrible secret: PM'd.

Name: Baltazar Engels

Age: 33

Race: Human

Profession: Priest of Ranald

Equipment: Bastard sword, crossbow, lockpicks, light armour, holy symbols of Ranald

Personality:
Baltazar is a good-natured scoundrel, as one would expect from a priest of Ranald. He presents himself as a rough-and-tumble mercenary with a simple outlook on life and a crude sense of humour - a convenient excuse for someone of his profession, and not too far from the truth. Though he rarely confesses his true nature, Ranald's name features prominently in his curses and prayers, and he makes no particular effort to hide his worship. Ranald, of course, is not an entirely unusual patron of mercenaries.

While typically upbeat and cheerful, Baltazar is no stranger to violence. As a staunch follower of Ranald, he finds it distasteful to harm thinking and feeling creatures for no reason, but he has seen enough of the world to consider vile races like greenskins and skaven exempt from mercy. Baltazar rarely loses his composure, even in battle, and though he is by no means fearless, he knows well enough to fake it. His apparent bravery, as well as his tendency to somehow always be in the right place at just the right time, tends to make him look like a much better warrior than he actually is.

Ranald grants his priests wondrous powers of stealth, and reprieve from the consequences of their actions. Baltazar, however, is reluctant to call on the fickle attention of his god without good reason - such as protecting his own life or playing a trick on someone who really has it coming.

Appearance:
Baltazar is of middling height, with decidedly average looks overall. Unassuming and unkempt, he has bland green eyes, messy, brown hair and blotchy skin. He shaves only when necessary, saving himself from razor burn but leaving him with a patchy stubble on most days. His calloused hands betray his commoner heritage, and in his role as a mercenary, he walks with the self-assured swagger of an invincible young warrior, even though he is not all that young anymore. He could produce the quiet dignity of a minister or the supplicant gait of a pauper if need be, but the jungles of Lustria hardly require further disguises.

Unsurprisingly, Baltazar has the sinewy muscle of a professional fighter, and the scars to show for a lifetime of combat. Strangely few of them show up anywhere easily visible, but it usually only takes him rolling up his sleeves or lifting his tunic to convince anyone that he has seen plenty of battle.

Bio:
Growing up on the streets of Marienburg, Baltazar quickly took to the culture of thievery surrounding the cult of Ranald. Induction into the priesthood was hardly even a conscious decision; he had never realized that the old beggar that used to teach him sleight of hand tricks was a priest, until the day he found himself praying to the Trickster God - and being answered. The cult of Ranald has no ranks to rise in, nor much prestige to gain, but Baltazar followed its unspoken creed as if by instinct (or careful manipulation, who knows), and quickly grew to become an adept wealth redistributor.

Like many Marienburgers, Baltazar spent his early years as a bedraggled orphan on the streets of the Suiddock, his father a teamster crushed by a falling crate, his mother killed when a journeyman fire mage lost his temper near the pub where she worked. The Guild of Stevedores and Teamsters, a protection racket by any account, saw to it that he didn't starve to death or get snatched off the street by some passing slaver, but anything beyond that was his own responsibility. Thus, Baltazar turned to stealing. As a nondescript street urchin of more than moderate talent, it was easy enough to pick the pockets of naive tourists and strutting burghers; as he grew bolder, even militia officers and young nobles became Baltazar's quarry. He gave most of his earnings away to the temple of Manaan - it kept him safe from robbers, and guaranteed him a bowl of soup those nights his skills failed him. By his mid-teens, he had already declared himself too good for Marienburg and set off for adventure on the high seas, hiring on as a deckhand on a trading ship.

Baltazar has spent the majority of his life on and around Marienburg trading vessels and caravans, "taking up collection" across the coasts and trade routes of the Old World. Posing as a bodyguard, he would help tradesmen get the upper hand on their business partners, taking a slightly-more-than-fair piece of the profits as compensation, and sampling local flavours while spending his somewhat ill-gotten gains. Baltazar has studied swordsmanship at Estalian fencing academies, lost drinking contests to Norse traders on the Sea of Claws, and even once found himself embroiled in a vendetta in the Tilean city-states.

Baltazar counts himself as experienced, powerful and skilled, as far as priests of Ranald go, even though he has never built any kind of legend around himself. Of course, many would claim that as a sign he's been truly successful.

Reason for joining: Making one (or more) last big score(s) before retiring from his career of active thievery.

Terrible secret: PM'd

Name: Sketti Hammerhand

Age: 237

Race: Dwarf (Dawi)

Profession: Engineer/Slayer

Equipment: Pack 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.
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.

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.

Appearance: 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)

Bio: 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...

Reason for joining: Gold and the chance of a worthy doom! (And the chance for a fine explosion or two)

Terrible secret: (PM me this! This will be used in the RP, just to add some spice. Make it something your character would kill to keep!)

Name: Listec Galbriath 'the Shadow Walker'

Age: Unknown

Race: Asur (High Elf)

Profession: Shadow Warrior of Nagarythe, Elf-for-hire, and expert guerilla combatant

Equipment: A small statue of Loec, a pouch for medical supplies and poisons and another pouch for cooking implements; he arms himself primarily with with a sleek Elven longbow, the sturdy but flexible white wood marked by curving Elvish script, the string made of a single unicorn hair, and a quiver full of steel-tipped arrows resting over his back. His secondary weapon – in the use of which he is no less skilled - is a finely crafted arming sword of Elven make which can be found strapped about his hip and hanging by his side.

As with most Asur, his armour is a mix of a more solid cuirass of burnished metal girding his upper torso, his arms left free to move beneath the light folds of a white and wide-sleeved tunic, his lower body protected by two split flaps of scale armour backed onto leather. Knee-high boots of reinforced leather cover his legs, as a pair of vambraces protect his forearms, a pair of gloves covering his slender hands and a pointed Elvish helm, gaunter and more encompassing of the entire face than the usual Asur helmets, defends his head from blade and arrow. To top it all off, he wears about him like a shroud the ubiquitous blue cloak which flows about his shoulders and covers the lower part of his face beneath his helmet.

(Equally, just take a look here and you'll get a pretty good idea of what he looks like anyway.)

Personality: As with many of his Nagarythi kith and kin, Listec is a bleak and cold-hearted figure with an intense hatred for anything and everything to do with the treacherous Druchii, his hatred for his heinous erstwhile countrymen so intense that it can hardly be overstated.

From this hate comes all else, his bleak outlook on existence, his upbringing as an irregular warrior from the mountain clans of a sunken land, and the reason that even other Asur look upon him with distrust and uncertainty, many of them wondering just how wide the gap between the Elves of Nagarythe and their darker cousins actually is.

In terms of Listec himself the gap is not huge, for he uses the methods of the enemy against them, he feels almost nothing when killing, and he remains silent most of the time – even his eyes showing deep within them the pain of a lost people.

Overall he prefers to remain alone, only joining others when he feels it prudent, far from a conversationalist and keeping silent unless he really needs to speak. When he does speak his words are hard-edged and bitter. This does have the side-effect of making him seem less 'brilliant' than he actually is, his mind as sharp – if not sharper – than any of his kin, centuries of fighting his dark kin throughout the world having made his mind as much a weapon as his bow or sword.

Appearance: Sleek and as androgynous as any other High Elf, he is around six and a half feet in height, his shoulder-length hair as black as a ravens feather, his face all high cheekbones and sharp angles. It is his eyes, almond shaped and almost completely black, that seem the most alien to outsiders – and for good reason – and should one stare too long into the abyss then the abyss stares back.

Bio: Little is known of this particular Elf before the current day, although there are records of a certain Galbriath having taken part in the battles of the Sundering – whether this is the same Elf, a member of the same family/clan, or simply a similarly named individual is unknown, as is most of his history in general.

What is known is that Listec is only one of a number of loyalist Nagarythi who decided that simply remaining in the Shadowlands and fighting off Druchii invasions would help little in the total scheme of things.

With this in mind he left Ulthuan for the wider world, taking a ship as far as Cathay, helping to hunt down Dark Elven corsairs en route – the dark warriors having attacked Cathayan trading routes on numerous occasions - before being hired 'officially' by the benevolent Dragon Emperor to train some of his bodyguard; although not magical as such, like all Shadow Warriors he was able to blend into the darkness as if he were born to it, and this proved most useful indeed when one wished to protect their sovereign.

Moving from the East he travelled back into the West, passing along the Silk Road with an Ogre caravan and helping to fight off Hobgoblin attacks, paid handsomely by the merchant leading it and getting his first taste of payment for services rendered (the Emperor had not paid him in coin, but in Dark Elven heads...).

In the following decades he hired out his services to any and all that would fight the Druchii, travelling to the mystical isle of Albion, to the northern wastes, and eventually to the lands of the Empire.

Catching wind of a gathering of mercenaries, he eagerly goes to see what lies in store.

Reason for joining: A possible chance to kill his most hated foe (Dark Elves get everywhere!), there are High Elf colonies he has never seen and wishes to (such as one on the southern tip of Lustria), and generally he wishes to hone his skills as a warrior. Oh, and gold never hurt anyone either...not really.

Terrible secret: PM'ed to GM