Of average height for a Chlotarin, stockily built. His hair is uncharacteristically dark grows long, to his shoulders, but is kept pulled back always. /* Still WIP, hard to put head-image into words and fuck if I can find a remotely similar picture. */

Lambertia

Chlotar by blood

Lothgar was a scribe to a nobleman of King Cauroman in his youth, the decision of his father who wished his son to rise above his peasant birth, but eventually traded the quill for a sword. Unlike most boys his age who joined the King’s Army, Lothgar practiced exhibition fighting over a traditional soldier’s style. His training drilled precision, control, and restraint. Exhibition fighting was about impressing crowds with feats of skill, and defeating opponents without harming them, unlike the barbaric gladiatorial matches of old. His training steered him towards discarding the traditional shield, and instead picking up a second sword, teaching a more difficult and more stylized form of swordplay that was fast and aggressive and particularly exciting to spectate. /* Control is key in this style, being able to halt a strike just short of connecting steel with flesh, but also without noticeably pulling one’s punches. */

As a loyal and honorable subject who already knew how to fight, he dutifully enlisted as the King’s Army marched on Edoaland. His regiment of fresh recruits was to be sent north at once to reinforce the armies as word had arrived of King Cauroman’s injuries. It was at this singular moment where Lothgar’s grounded worldview divided him from his own kin. “God will protect us” the general said. But God wasn’t here. Lothgar’s view was simple. “The man to my right will save me long before God will.” He should have counted himself lucky the general did not order his execution. [/* Honor and duty are everything to him. He would never go to war for God but he will always go to war for kingdom. */

He headed south from Ringerkijn, an outcast and a nomad. There were days he went hungry, days he nearly died to one wild carnivore or another, days he had to steal or kill just to survive. His disdain for senseless violence split his spirit to the bone. /* He may have fought for entertainment, and enlisted to go to war, but maiming and killing for something as simple as survival does not sit well with him at all. */ He wandered through Baltia for the better part of a year, briefly visiting the City of Tautom and leaving just two days later. Freedom from all authority left its people without direction or drive. Even Lothgar’s grounded mindset could not endure the depravity of its dwellers.

He caught a merchant caravan heading west into Skadania and departed with them. The life of a sellsword used to be beneath him, but in exile he came to the fateful realization that his honor was not dependent who he served. It was how he carried himself and he had let go of that. Some of the traders were blood Lambertian and others, like him, were picked up at random places along the group’s travels. As a scribe he had learned enough Celesean to get by outside the borders of Chlotaringen, but along the journey to Skadania he began to pick up Lambertian as he found those members of the group oddly pleasant to be around. His former countrymen in the King’s Army had ventured to the edge of the mountains they skirted, no doubt as the kings set Lambertia in their sights. He warned that they would not be left alone by the soldiers.

As if prophesized, a group of half a dozen soldiers stopped them and tried to seize their goods “in the name of the King.” Lothgar and two other mercenary-types joining along were outnumbered two to one, but as the moment came to test his loyalties his blades struck true to his word to protect the caravan. His present company didn’t know who he was. He had picked up the name Rothari, a sufficient departure from his own that didn’t betray his blood lineage, while in Tautom. Thus it didn’t matter to them the significance of what had occurred. But it came to forever shape how he defined himself. “I choose to where I stand. It is not chosen for me.” /* He used to feel a need to be loyal to Chlotaringen even after they turned their back on him and despite his own feelings of not belonging. That had to be forcibly broken for him to become who he’s meant to be. */

He meant to slip away in the city, to be no one for a time, but best laid plans didn’t happen. Without question his stylized fighting style had imprinted on the merchantmen far more so than any pragmatic demonstrations from the other sellswords who apparently were omitted from the story entirely. When he heard about his exploits through someone else, he had single-handedly beaten back all six soldiers without help in a terrifying display of flying steel. The overblown rendition made his eyes roll, and had attracted the eyes of a minor nobleman of King Dalgiserius’ court. Just his luck. /* Not exactly part of the plan for someone of Chlotaringen, even if he did just betray them when push came to shove. */ That lord, Sir Grimoald, took a liking to “Rothari” as he still called himself, and sought to see him captain his guard.

Once again a soldier, he trained with a sword-staff, which he came to wield far more as a staff than most rather than ignoring the blunt end’s proficiency for knocking heads, and other weapons available to him. Yet he consistently found the Lampert traditional halberd to be too unwieldy for the aggressive fighting form he practiced. He took solace in practicing a proper training regiment again, rather than only brandishing weapons out of necessity. His dedication was seen favorably by his new lord, even though it was simply a matter of discipline and comfort for him, and he rose through the ranks to become his lord’s so-called “Master at Arms” and captain of the guard regiment. Suddenly he was the head bodyguard for a lord of a people he once considered an enemy, and it sat surprisingly well with him.

His position afforded him attendance to the court of King Dalgiserius as guard to his Lord Grimoald. Immediately he grew to hate the king. He made demands and military decisions that could not have been worse, and Lothgar had to shoulder the burden of every death his guard regiment suffered at the hands of the king’s frequent mandate for soldiers. Lord Grimoald and he got into it frequently, as he knew better than to speak for his lord in the presence of the king but would not hold back his thoughts afterward. He usually kept his irritation in check long enough to arrive at a more private venue before raging about whatever the latest unreasonable demand was, or at least keep his booming voice down when departing the castle, but to his shame he had caught the princess overhearing his rants more than once.

Maybe he just noticed it more. Maybe it was because he was a new face in the council. Whatever the case, he seemed to notice her more afterwards. She was always watching in the court, her piercing gaze judging the noblemen in her father’s favor. She showed up to meet with Lord Grimoald unexpectedly. She even once brought a surprise visit from her father, something his lord had never ranked highly enough to warrant before, and he was eager to showcase his master at arms’ skill in an exhibition match. He tried to convince Lothgar the princess was hot for him. “I’m almost as old as her father. That is not going to happen.” Whatever the case, she knew who he was. What that meant for Lothgar exactly was unclear.
/* This isn’t done by any means and I want to continue it through (though this could be a viable start point) but I’m hesitant to push farther because I don’t want to make incorrect assumptions about who the princess is. */