Name:
Attor Snakeslayer

Rank:
Watcher

Appearance:
Mice have many enemies. Their foes come in any number of shapes and sizes. Great and small, from the tiniest shrew upstart to the vicious serpent monsters that tower above them, Mice have many enemies indeed. The greatest of these, though, is one often forgotten. Young mice in particular worry more about rats, weasels and lizards; they don't remember that foe of foes until their whiskers are long and their paws are wrinkled. Only in the final whispers of their years do Mice tend to turn their eye on the enemy that takes more Mice than all the rest.

That enemy, of course, is time.

And Attor knows it well.

Time's claws have worn him down. They have scratched, cut and bitten until that once proud soul is little more than a shadow of his former self, though the mouse would never admit it. His ugly coat, once black as midnight, now lies across his back matted, discolored and dirty. Eyes of unbreakable steel that once stared death in the face with unblinking courage have dulled and quieted, like the edge of an overused blade.

That was what Attor was, in truth: an old sword that'd seen one too many battles.

His right ear is torn; chipped like the brittle edge of a rusted dagger. His whiskers are long and droopy, nearly brushing against the ground when Attor goes to sit.

The marks of war and violence are prevalent across him, to the point where one would be hard-pressed to mark Attor as anything but an old soldier. Scars adorn most of his coat and body, from cuts to poorly healed burns and everything in-between. The worst of these injuries is a long, gnarly tear across his right forearm. A rat's blade tasted deep in his flesh many a moon ago, and Attor has had trouble opening that paw ever since. He was forced to relearn how to use both quill and sword with his left arm, though it's hard to tell he's not a natural lefty given how long ago that was.

Even the Snakeslayer's cloak has not aged well. Once bright like polished bronze, his mentor had remarked that Attor was more weasel than mouse, such was his slipperiness and savagery. Both of those traits have been worn down to the nub, much like the coloring of his cloak. Old bones don't dip and dive as they used to, and Attor finds little satisfaction in bloodshed anymore. His cloak is torn and discolored, covered in rough, self-made patches to keep it from falling apart. He's in dire need of a replacement, though the mouse would rather die than replace the last thing his master ever gave him.

Personality:
Attor Snakeslayer is the best storyteller in all the Kingdoms of Gnaw. Or so he would have you believe. He's had a fondness for stories since he was but a mere boy, sparked first by the tales his father would read to him before bed. Even as he grew older, stronger and wiser, Attor never lost that love, though there were fewer and fewer stories that he hadn't heard before.

So he decided to make his own.

It was easiest to find stories among the Redwatch. They were something of a living legend to Attor. And in their midst he decided to craft his own legend. He wasn't very good at it in the beginning, as all orators, writers and would-be tale-weavers can attest to. But he sharpened his verse and widened his expressions through the years, crafting newer and better tales as he went out and lived them for himself. That was how he came by his title: Snakeslayer. It was a story he'd gotten quite good at telling. Attor always attested to it's truth, though many called him a liar for it. They tried to mock him with that name, but Attor wore it with pride.

As time had helped him develop the art of speaking, so too it had worn down Attor's luster. For every tale he brought back of a vicious battle against the rats, or of a personal squabbled settled on the edge of a dagger, Attor's shoulders grew a little heavier. His smile a little slighter. The change was far from instant. Many hadn't noticed anything wrong with the mouse, even as his tales grew more grim, and his demeanor more somber. At some point, Attor forgot to keep telling of heroes, victory and bombastic adventure. He forgot the stories he'd fallen in love with as a youth.

He forgot himself.

At times, usually when Attor's quite drunk, he'll lament the passing of time. He'll lament the passing of the age of heroes, yearning for a return to a simpler era. An era where the Watch made sense- when the world made sense. A time when he would march into a village and be cheered for the band he wore upon his arm instead of shied away from, like he was a leper or a cutthroat. A time when Attor felt like a hero.

But he understands that the world doesn't work that way. He's resigned himself to the cold, unbending truth that the world no longer wants the Redwatch. Westercroft thinks itself above their help, and Glendale claims not to need it. The only place Attor feels at home is in Redfield- where he's more than content to make his final bed.

Name: Galan of Splittree, of Glendale

Rank: Watcher

Appearance: A brown mouse with bright eyes. Though he longer makes his permanent home in the trees of the Glen, his coat retains an oily shine common to the mice from there. His distinguishing feature is the distinctive flare of his ears, as if he is always at attention. Galan has received his red cloak, the color chosen because his mentor noted that Galan, though still just a green band at the time, would tell every mouse he could that he was a Redwatch mouse, and the cloak would save him the trouble. However, Galan has only recently graduated into the ranks of the Watchers, and he still has a bit of water behind his ears.

Personality:
Galan is a partisan, a trait that is perhaps undesirable in a member of the Redwatch, though he thinks that partisanship is exactly what the Redwatch needs. He believes himself to have a lively intellect and spends his free time reading historical tracts. His reading has only deepened his already zealous loyalty to the Redwatch, seeing it to be the fragile string that binds the disparate mice kingdoms together.

Galan's village is carved into a large tree which had its heartwood exposed by lightning long ago, making the structures especially hardy. As a child, he was impressed that those mice that came before were able to eke out their living, even thrive, in a world that was even more full of danger than the one he knew. He grew up on stories of these and others of the first Glen mice, of the hardscrabble settlers who came and went, and especially of the militia of the Redfort. It was they who had made his village possible, and so he felt he owed them homage.

With the values he had learned from these stories, Galan found the current carelessness of the mice of the Glen, their easy acceptance that this was as it has always been and will be, baffling. He believed that the way the mice lived their lives could rupture at any time, and he watched with awe the local Redwatch members who fought to prevent that.

So when Galan came of age and could decide for himself what to do, where to go was never in question; he left for the Redfort with a wish to be part of something greater. It was there that he learned to read and write. Though he had the aptitude to be a scribe, Galan insisted on training as a Watcher. It was during this time that Galan learned of the frequent incursions into mice lands, the chipping away of the Westercroft, . But he also learned of the suspicion that accompanied a Redwatch member wherever one went and the belief, shared even by some in the ranks, that the time of the Redwatch should come to an end. It was then that Galan understood that mice society as it now existed would eventually, and must, end.

Though Galan is loyal to the Redwatch, his loyalty to the monarch of Redfield, let alone the nobles of the other kingdoms, is questionable; he feels that their luxurious lifestyles is what insulates them from understanding the consequences of what is to come and their jealous suspicions to defend their noble titles are what prevent the people of Gnaw from being greater than what they are. He keeps that close to the coat, however.

Galan is confident, but protective of his pride. Though he is generous to friends, he can hold a grudge for far too long. He devours ideas, though one could say it's ideas that devour him.

Name: Skye of Daggerpeak

Rank: Watcher

Appearance: A young, healthy but plain-looking mouse with black fur, Skye faces stigma for her fur color and her missing tail. She is tall and lean, and her nose is long and sensitive. She has small eyes - and poor vision to boot - and her ears aren't very expressive. The young mouse has a tendency to smile whether she's pleased or sad, which makes it hard to tell how she's feeling at times. Skye can look quite fierce and determined once combat begins, however, and her ears and nose are very active when she's alarmed. The volume of her lilting voice and the range of tones Skye commands is quite impressive, and she is a natural singer. The diction she uses is quite educated, though her accent is that of someone from Westercroft. Her teeth seem to have been filed.

Skye wears a hooded white cloak with silver embroidery, and she has a tartan patterned white-and-gray sash to match it. She wears a black-and-white checkered gambeson for armor and carries a halberd - her former mentor's halberd - as her weapon of choice. She does keep a very small knife and a few pouches to carry useful things on her sash, however. She also makes certain to bring her lyre with her wherever she goes.

Personality: As the beloved adopted daughter of minor Westercroft nobles, Skye has been afforded some small luxury in her life. But for a noble, she's rather mindful of the plights of the commoners, and is quite vocal in regards to the need for the Watchers to protect everyone they can.

Skye's mentor, Baldric, died fighting for what he believed in. Though only recently graduated into the rank of Watcher, Skye does her best to honor her mentor's memory. He was honorable, brave, and never stopped adhering to his stringent code of dignity and justice for all. It is a lofty memory to dedicate herself to, but Skye nevertheless wants to be as much like her tutor and dearest friend as she can.

Those that know the young Watcher well would call her passionate. She speaks her mind openly, and denounces injustice where she sees it. In fact, one might say she's too vocal, and that she's too protective of all of Gnaw's residents. She believes in the rights of all Gnawers, no matter whether they are rich or poor, of Redfield or the Glen, or even whether they are mice, shrews, or voles. It's going to get her into trouble some day. But her diction is masterful, her choice of words careful, and there is a certain finesse to her intonation and her gesticulation.

---

Skye's story is a short but sad one. Her biological parents were warriors in the service of the Lord Devlin and Lady Jasmine, minor Westercroft nobles whose charge it was to maintain the hidden mountain outpost of Daggerpeak near the borders of the Spoorwall. Unfortunately, a band of Gnashers found the fort. Her parents fought to protect their lieges, but they died in the raid, as did others. The raiders even cut off little Skye's tail as a cruel joke, as if being left an orphan wasn't cruelty enough. In honor of her parents' sacrifice, Lord Devlin and Lady Jasmine took Skye in as their own child, to be raised alongside their daughter.

The young mouse was not ungrateful for the kindness of her adopted parents (whom she loves dearly), but she nevertheless wished to make a name for herself. Her dreams were enraptured by fantasies of the heroism of the Redwatch, of mice as brave and bold as her birth parents had been. When she came of age she informed her family she would join the Redwatch. They disagreed with the notion at first, but after lengthy discussion they relented.

Skye trained hard - very hard - to be accepted into the Redwatch. She worked under Baldric of Rosewood, a noble old warrior who still believed in the mission of the Watch. She had some difficulty passing her tests due to her poor eyesight, but she proved a capable servant to the Watcher thanks to sheer determination and a canny mind. It didn't help that she was persuasive. Her mentor became quite proud of his pupil in the end, and was looking forward to giving her an appropriate cloak color.

Unfortunately, a party of rat bandits made a foray into Redfield, and Baldric was among those that went to fight them. He, Skye, and a full patrol marched out to fight them. Baldric was among those that met his demise.

Skye became a proper Watcher, but she regrets that her mentor could not be around to see her now. She hopes to prove herself worthy of her white cloak, and to be at least half the hero he was.

Name: Montary Jack, as in the Cheese. This was the name he ended up with during his days as a street performer. It involved some cheese, knives, and a volunteer. It didn't go as planned.

Rank: Watcher; Many wonder how the hell this dandy is even alive, and mostly in tact.

Appearance: Among the watch, Montary is one of the few whom could be claimed as a beacon of charisma. The white and mottled brown mouse, could still look dashing in the most rag-tag, moth shredded, mud soaked, incompetent outfit you could find. And it’s certainly not to the lack of other’s trying.

The little dandy stands shorter than most males – and sports a sleek build. His whiskers are somehow permanently twisted together drawing into four sharp points, two on either side of his snout. And the fur of his chin? Rather than being cut short, it was allowed to grow a little longer, and form into a fine point.

But as any story of a troubadour can tell you, the tides of battle leaves no mouse unscathed. For he does have a few scars. A notch of his ears missing, and also some signs of claws raking on his hide, but the fur is more than capable of hiding those.

Montary wears very little in his day to day activities. He’s a mouse proud to show himself off, even when he’s soaked in blood, and other filth. On his head he sports a fashionably gawdy lopsided poof of a hat. Purple in color with a large feather jutting out from the front and arcing to the back. And the watcher’s cloak he wears?

His mentor had chosen the color pink for him to wear. For the mouse’s lack of shame, flamboyant personality, and humor. And of course, the little dandy wears it with pride, and with absolutely not a single shred of shame.

Personality: Above all else, and as his appearance foretells, the mouse is a Minstrel first and a soldier second. His honed sense of humor, and love for the stage are true testiments to that. Many times, he can seem foolhardy, flippant, overconfident, and a flirt. Even worse, a drunkard and an idiot. And yet despite all of this, he can show the traits of a leader in well-timed fits. Perhaps not the same as a mouse of valor giving out orders to troops whom are paniced. Or someone who rallies another by the wind of her banner, to an army who’s disorganized. No, where he shines best is in an army that had already been broken.

Yes, the thespian is a master of reading the emotions in the room. The man who desires to reignite and kindle the flames in the hearts of many mice. He kills the time and slays boredom with songs belted out with the aid of his hurdy-gurdy. He chips away the aching fear of being forgotten after death by inscribing the Watch’s stories, exploits, and the individual members into an Annal. And most importantly, he gives the biggest insult to the face of grim-dark by ensuring the good times keep rolling.

He’s a charming mouse, who sees the world as his audience and like any good thespian, he strives to keep them entertained.
… When he’s not flirting with the mouse over younder.

Name: Kent SilentFur

Rank: Watcher

Appearance: It is not often that you find a mouse who is as much an outcast as a close ally. A mouse who is looked upon with pity, amazement, shame, horror, and even fear.

A mouse like Kent SilentFur.

Long has his snow white fur plagued his relations with other mice, his piercing ruby red eyes causing others gaze to shy away less he curse them in some way. Such is the life of an albino mouse. Forever plagued by taunts and superstitious fears by others who know nothing of what they say. All of this only compounded by his small size, even for mouse standards. Some say he's just a child, and few believe him when he informs him of his age of twenty six years. True, after enough time one learns to simply ignore the words of others but their weight lingers still.

However these have long since ceased to be worries. Since his transition from greenband to watcher, he wears his white cape with a sense of purpose stronger then the words that once fell heavy upon his ears. Ears that he lost the same day he lost his mentor. When he had his ears cut off while captured by a group of ruthless rats he was sure he was as good as dead. His mentor clearly had reason to believe otherwise, because when he arrived with a squad to rescue him Kent realized what it truly meant to be a part of the watch. To protect those in need, no matter who they were or what they looked like. Unfortunately Leof DarkFur died in the attack to save Kent, but he left behind a legacy of what it meant to be a member of the watch.

Now, as Kent stood watch atop the mountains of Westercroft near the valley of Bones, his cape flapping against the strong winds revealing the bright red band of the watch upon his right arm and his belt and bandoleer of daggers normally hidden beneath it, he watches and he waits. Still young and still ready to defend his homelands and even those who sought to belittle him in the past. The watch is not here to pick and choose who it protects, and neither is he.

Personality: While Kent may appear to be naive, he understands more then people give him credit for. While he finds politics to be rather annoying and time wasting he is more then adept at understanding whats going on. All the more reason to dislike the circles and facades that lie within. Being slow to anger and slow to speak, Kent always assesses and Watches, seeking the right moment to speak his mind. Once he feels he knows all of the information be ready for an earful however, for he speaks his mind and will not hesitate to say the truth no matter how hurtful it may be. As serious as he can be, a good joke is always a welcome reprieve from a world that sometimes seems to be darker then it really is. Small pranks with the few he can call friends can sometimes be heard spoken of around hither and yonder, with a reddened muzzle sometimes not far behind. While being young he can sometimes have his immature moments, but he is still quite mature for his age. Or at least it is said by some that know of him.

Name:

Bernia the Briar

Rank:

Greenband

Appearance:

It is said looks are oft deceiving, but if this were the case, nobody ever informed Bernia. Short in height and slight of build, the mercurial youngster cuts the same form one would expect of a guttersnipe. She is thin and scrawny, leaner than one her age has right to be and commonly hunches forward to further deprive herself of stature, though whether of habit or by malnutrition her posture suffers it is unknown. Her fur, frequently dirty and unkempt, is cinnamon brown in tone, intermittently specked with small pale spots along her back and softened into a milky white on her undercarriage. Her youthful features stand stark against the hardened, hateful look in her dark eyes, with a short muzzle, shiny black whiskers, and large round ears she's yet to fully grow into outing her as mouseling. She does not dress herself, seeing clothing as unnecessary, though she does keep a twine belt looped around her narrow hips to hold various pouches, tools and trophies, and perhaps more notably, insists upon wearing a copper band around the base of her tail.

Personality:

In possession of an aptly given alias, Bernia can best be described as thorny. She is capricious and hot-tempered, unusually spiteful and almost universally mistrusting of those around her. She is first and foremost self-serving, considering herself to be the only ally in this world she is capable of trusting. She will put herself before others almost every step of the way if given such an option, although she is not above cooperation if it is apparent she will benefit from it in the long term. Greedy to a fault, the young mouse covets material possessions above all else, be they something so simple as an extra nut at meal time or the sparkling pyrite brooch of a wealthy merchant mouse. It goes without saying that she has little in the way of morals when it comes to obtaining such items, and finds herself at odds with companion and civilian alike when her impulsiveness gets the better of her, and she appropriates them.

Honor, justice and chivalry have little more value to the Briar than the dung which feeds Redfort's beetle population. She sees them as hypocritical at best, outright deceptions at worst, lies crafted by mice in high towers with full coffers to soften the guilt of their own actions. She knows the world for what it is, a cruel and hard place where mice are to the wider world, and even their fellow mouse, what the aforementioned words are to her. Bernia fully believes that those who embrace the nature of the world, mouse eat mouse, will come ahead of those who delude themselves with weak morality. She cheats, she steals, she claws and fights and scratches and bites without remorse, for experience has taught her that it works; it has gotten her this far, and she hasn't the inclination to try anything else. It is, therefore, obvious that she sees her apprenticeship at the watch as little more than an opportunity to reach a better life, a fully pragmatic decision rather than any kind of bright-eyed dream.

There is much in the world that Bernia holds in contempt beyond the mummer's farce of rules that bind civilization together. She rails against orders, her upbringing casting authority figures as the enemy, often complying only well enough to avoid punsihment without compromising her freedom too much. She has a tendency to see enemies in every crowd, knives in every corner, leading to standoffish behavior even in the face of the rare acts of kindness she has come to experience, as her own mercenary behavior has ingrained the idea that others merely utilize such honeyed words to lower her guard and obtain something for themselves. It is a painful truth for the young mouse to admit, but there is little in this world she has to enjoy. Aside from her almost comical greed and the brief, but intense thrill she gets from pocketing things of value, Bernia knows nothing of the simple pleasures of life. She lives every moment on edge, always ready to fight or take flight, never prepared to reap the benefits of laxity the society she so vehemently rejects provide mousekind.