Hello everyone. Most of you are friends with me, and to those of you who don't know me, It's nice to roleplay with you. I won't go too much into this, but to give a bit of background. I'm not the end all be all of Witcher Lore, but I've been a fan of the universe and stories for 8 years, ever since I got my copy of Witcher 2 for PC and I'd like to think I'm fairly well informed. For those of you who are new fans to the series, fret not for I will provide information you need. This upcoming weekend I will be busy, but the weekend of the 18th & 19th is probably a good date for you to see about having a character done, so no huge hurry.

Now let's talk about what I expect in the roleplay. I very much enjoyed the netflix show, but it did lack a key element of the series. The Witcher is great because it blends both medieval realism and fairy tales into a well made series, and a lot of the show didn't showcase much of the authentic medieval mindset that's in both the original books and somewhat shown in the games. @Kassarock knows how much I care about medieval realism since he peer reviewed the Medieval arms and armor article I wrote for the site around 2 years ago now. Don't let that intimidate you, but keep it in mind.

Now onto the characters. Make no mistake, this is an expedition. Yes, sleeping with ardent sorceresses and claiming children with the Law of Surprise is great, but if you're a Witcher in this roleplay, your goal first and foremost is killing monsters. If you're a sorcerer/sorceress, you're to guard against magical intrusions, provide protective enchantments, keeping Rakald Keep hidden behind illusions, advising, and various other tasks. If you're a soldier, you guard the keep and fight off intruders. If you're a Knight, you do the same and also aid the Witchers in monster slaying. If you're a prospector, you try to find valuable minerals in the mountain or help get raw materials for construction. If you're a scout, you scout, etc.

I am trusting the roleplayers present with a bit of creative Leeway. I will give adventure seeds, I will give the main quest, and provide the layout for the keep and the surrounding area. But I am allowing you to add small things to the environment for creativity's sake, as long as it's nothing huge and doesn't truly affect the foundations of the roleplay. For example, if you're a Knight and there is a worker near you, you can likely have him run a menial errand because of your station. However, I will monitor this very closely, so take care.

Long ago, there was merely the Continent. The only known sentient race to have lived there were the Gnomes, and shortly thereafter the Dwarves appeared, around five thousand years ago (roughly four thousand years before humans). They two races met peacefully, as they had a similar way about them and the Dwarves were not looking to expand and conquer. Two thousand years later, the Elves arrived on their white ships from another world. The Elves expanded and grew powerful, and though they weren't war mongering, they were less peaceful and fought various wars against the Dwarves, as well as lesser known races such as the reptilian Vran and the hairy Werebbubbs.

And then, an event known as the Conjunction of the Spheres occurred. A cataclysmic event where various rifts opened between worlds and creatures from other planets and dimensions were transported back and forth between planes. Many, in fact most of the monsters the Witchers hunt appeared during this time (such as Dragons and Vampires), as did humans, who were transported from their homeworld (Earth) that they themselves destroyed. The humans, able to breed far quicker than the Elder races, spread across the Continent, and after a succession of wars against the Elves, became the dominant species this side of the Blue Mountains.

Those Elves that survived became servants, or went into hiding. The Gnomes, introverted as they were, live with the Dwarves or in small communities in the mountains. Lesser known peoples like the Halflings, Vran, and Werebbubbs became nearly extinct, but some of them still live in the current era in small pockets. The Dwarves came out the best (though still second class citizens), integrating into human society easier than the others as they are skilled smiths and bankers.

In the 10th century, a group of Sorcerers and Kings came together and discussed the geopolitical climate of the Continent. The Elder races themselves had been mostly handled, but there were still various beings that had not yet been exterminated, imprisoned in camps, or integrated into human society. These were the monsters. And so, the Witchers were made. Originally meant to be Magic Knights to quell the last bit of resistance this world had left against the humans, little did they know that the monsters would not be exterminated so easily, nor would the Elder races fade peacefully. They also did not realize how grueling and torturous the trials to become a Witcher were, nor what that would do to someone's body, but they also cared little as long as they got the job done.

It has been one thousand, two hundred and sixty five years since the Conjunction of Spheres, and two years since the Battle of Sodden Hill that halted Nilfgaard's advance. Now it is up to you, to help push back Nilfgaard, before they attack once more...

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The Northern Kingdoms: A loose collection of germanic-esque kingdoms that warr with one another for power, though they share a common culture and ban together when faced with a larger threat. There is a huge list of Kingdoms, but even big fans of the series sometimes cannot tell them apart as the political landscape changes book by book and game by game.

Nilfgaard: An Empire that was once seen as a backwater laughingstock at the edge of the world, in recent years it's been rightfully feared and has attacked the North, conquering a few of the southern Kingdoms. Rumor has it they are once again preparing for invasion. They worship the Sun.

Witchers: Essentially Super Soldiers with no political affiliation. They are taken as children and mutated through both science and magic to gain superhuman strength, toughness, fortitude, senses, and speed. Though some Witcher hire themselves out exclusively to certain clients like a King, they are beholden first and foremost to their school. There are the Schools of the Wolf, the Viper, the Bear, the Cat, the Manticore, and the Crane.

Scoia'tael: Non-human guerillas also known as the Squirrels, due to the squirrel tails they wear on themselves. They're terrorists to human Kingdoms and freedom fighters to non-humans. Recently employed by Nilfgaard with promises to grant them a Kingdom of their own, they're deadly ruthless in their hatred for humanity.

Blue Stripes: Temeria's Special Forces and Secret Police, lead by Vernon Roche.

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King of Temeria. Has humped his sister and half the women in his Kingdom. Isn't well liked by other nobility and some of his people, but his soldiers adore him and he's known for his military genius and forth-right nature.


Oldest son and bastard of Foltest and (apparent) leader of the expedition, he claims he seeks to gain his inheritance by fulfilling his father's wishes here. He's known as an avid fighter, an experienced sailor, and he is a supporter of nonhuman rights.


A beautiful and talented Sorceress and Advisor to Foltest, Triss is a skilled healer and battle mage and former lover of Geralt of Rivia. She is called "Fourteenth on the Hill" after the Battle of Sodden Hill, as she was believed to have been one of the thirteen to have died there when she had in fact survived.


The ruthless head of the Blue Stripes, Temeria's Special Forces. Vernon Roche is an ardent patriot and loyal to a fault, following his King's orders without hesitation. He's not one to cross, particularly with talk of treason.


Former Hedge Knight and current Emperor of Nilfgaard. He is an intelligent ruler, a brilliant statesman, but expantionist and power hungry to a fault. He brooks no wound to his pride, and seeks to dominate the North. In contrast to the Northern Kings, nonhumans generally seem to support him.

Race: Human
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Birthplace: Nazairi Highlands
Profession: Mercenary

Appearance

Nadia is an unusual woman. She is of a height with most men, with broad shoulders and arms thick with well used muscle. Across her biceps the skin is patterned with strange little scars and flecks of coloured ink, the tradition markings of the old brigand clans from the rocky interior highlands of Nazair. Her skin is slightly darker than that of most northern folk, and her hair darker still. It hangs a tangled mop of black curls, shorn short on the side of the head and at the nape of the neck. It tumbles down the right side of her face, partially obscuring a long horizontal scar that clips off the tip of that ear.

The face below is also marked by the scars of battle, three smaller slashes, two across the right cheek, and one below the full lips of her mouth along the line of her strong jaw. When she smiles you can see she is missing a tooth, and the one next to it has been cracked making it appear abnormally pointed. Nadia's face would have always been more striking than traditionally beautiful, but these prominent war wounds along with her physicality leaves her something of a ferocious and dangerous air. The eyes set in his dangerous face are not ferocious however, they are cool and grey, that flash with a sly and somewhat amused look to them.

When not in armour she most often dresses practically, eschewing more traditionally female garb in favour of breaches, short tunics, linen shirts, and a leather jerkin. She generally wears non-dyed fabrics, although she does own several articles dyed bright red with Nazairi Cinnabarite.

Personality

Raised with a spear in hand by mountain bandits and spending most of her adult life in armour, Nadia is woman who can drink, spit and swear with the best and boldest of the soldiery. When she wishes to be she is the centre of attention, the loudest, brashest person in the room. Her speech is peppered with japes and swears in foreign tongues. She laughs often and loudly, frequently at her own expense. She answers insults in kind, and with a mocking smile as if to say she's heard it all before. If insults escalate to steel, she hasn't lost yet. She is a bravado, confident in her own skills, and seemingly fearless.

She is, however, no unthinking thug or lout. Nadia engages in boorish behaviours, but her quick wits often shine through either in her clever tongue or her skills in games of chance and probability. She's good with numbers and knows her letters well enough to stumble through reading her own contracts. She also excels in tactical planning, being fond of preparing traps and ambushes when has control of the field of engagement. While she isn't the most book learned or formally educated person, she makes for it with an excellent memory, and a shrewd mind underneath it all.

The only time Nadia really seems to lose her good natured boisterousness is when it comes to Nilfguaard. Her playful fiery nature changes to a cold and hard rage, quite different from her usual persona. Despite being a mercenary by profession, its said she's never claimed a Nilfguaardian ransom, none who cross her path are left alive.

History

Nadia was born in Nazair. Her father was prominent member of a highland clan, one inclined to the twin professions of bandit and brigand, as many of the highland clans were in those days. Nazair, like all the southern kingdoms, raises boys and girls like the elves do: they're taught how to fight, ride a horse, and go hunting as children, regardless of gender. Nadia was no exception. She spent her childhood riding surefooted mountain ponies, hunting with the sling and short bow, and training with the preferred weapon of her people: the wicked Nazairi short spear, perfect for holding narrow mountain passes, or to be thrown from behind a rocky outcrop.

It was not the kindest nor safest of childhoods, but it was a happy one. She idolised her father, strong, brave, and utterly fearless. He was not worried when Nilfguaard marched North and destroyed the ancient capital of Assengard. The highland clans had no love for the low land nobility. Who cared if they were ruled from Assengard or Nilfguaard? They would continue living free, taking from who they wanted, as they had always done.

But it was not to be.

Their new rulers took a dim view of the actions of the clans, stealing from Nilfguaardian soldiers and merchants. The empire pushed up into the highlands like no other kingdom ever had before, burning the villages and hidden camps of the clans, poisoning their wells, sowing their fields with salt. Nadia's father was executed by the empire before she was a woman grown. A few of her people refused to bend their knees, they fled north, taking Nadia and her mother with them.

In Cintra they were refugees, families dead and broken, stripped of the world they knew and the ways they held dear. They had no wealth, no land, and no skills that were valuable here other than violence. So they sold the one thing they could, their spears. Thankfully they had come to right place. Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra as she was called, was always fighting wars and suppressing rebellions. They took gold from the queen and died on her battlefields. Nadia learned to how to steal in Nazair, but she learned how to fight wars in Cintra. As the years wore on what started as a band of exiles held together through common cause began to turn into just another mercenary company, filled with unfamiliar faces and hard bitten killers.

Nadia and some of others from the clans tried to keep their culture alive. She tried to live like her father. But it seemed like destiny was doomed to repeat itself when she finally faced Nilfguaard again at the battle of Marnadal three years ago. Cintra routed, Queen Calanthe wounded, Eist Tuirseach dead. The battlefield claimed the lives of most of those who had remembered the the ways of their people, the company was finished. Nadia herself took the scar across her ear that day, and deeper scars as well.

She went North again, to Temeria. When she could fight again Nadia went with King Foltest to Sodden Hill, but they arrived so late most of the killing had already been done. When the King offered the chance to go south, into Nilfguaard, almost to the lands her people once held - Nadia jumped at the chance.

Skills

• Spear and Shield Fighting
• One Handed Swordsmanship
• Horse Riding and Grooming
• Raconteuring and Carousing
• Skirmisher Tactics
• Arithmetic
• Games of Chance

Specialty: Nadia's speciality is her role as a lightly armoured skirmisher. Her preferred fighting style is on foot with spear and shield.

Equipment

Weapons: Nadia carries several weapons on her person when going into battle. Primarily she uses a six foot long light spear tipped with a diamond shaped head of iron that can be thrust with or thrown. If possible she will bring multiple spears with her. At her side is a simple one handed arming sword and a utilitarian broad bladed dagger. These act as side arms in case of the loss of her spear. In her off hand she carries a round, concave, iron plated, wooden shield.

Armor: Nadia swears relatively light armour that emphasises utility and mobility over protection. She wears grey and brown brigantine plate over an arming jacket. Pauldrons and vambraces of lobstered steel protect her shoulders and forearms. On her head, Nadia wears an open faced steel sallet.

Misc:

• Male riding horse named Wander.
• Horse tack
• Bedroll and blanket
• Water skin
• Wine skin
• Coin purse
• Fire irons and cooking pot
• Small woodaxe
• Tinderbox and flint and steel
• Whetstone
• Deck of Gwent cards
• Set of bone gaming dice
• Several days of dried rations
• Several changes of clothes

Name: Aidann na Oisin
Race: Human...ish?
Age: 174
Gender: Male
Birthplace: The fortress of Kaer Muire on Ard Skellig, Skellige
Profession: Witcher (Bear-school)

Appearance:
Aidann, when he was a touch younger

Aidann is a big, burly man, standing at nearly 6’3”, and as age has not dulled his instincts and skills, so too has it yet to touch his build. Despite how many winters he’s seen, he is covered with rippling, corded muscle; very little of his 230-pound mass is fat. His fair skin, leathered from long exposure to sun, sea, and snow, is festooned with crisscrossing scars earned over the course of a Witcher’s long and dangerous life. His hair is still thick, and relatively coarse; while there are streaks of gray shot through it now, most of it remains the flaming red that he’s so proud of. He keeps his beard long, but doesn’t style it as he used to, decrying such things with a laugh as the vain playacting of a younger, more foolhardy Witcher. He does, however, sweep his hair back over his high forehead, wrinkled with sun, age, laughter, and worry, so as to keep it out of his eyes during combat.

Speaking of his eyes, they are, as with most, his most distinguishing trait as a Witcher: brilliant gold, with pupils that snap open into catlike slits at his command, or when it’s too dark for him to otherwise see. They are set deep into his face, and surmounted with a pair of bushy red brows. The skin around them, just as his forehead, is deeply creased, as are the corners of his mouth. He has thin lips that are quite brightly colored, though it can be hard to see them past his bushy facial glory. He has the high cheekbones of one with good breeding, but again--these are swallowed by the beard. His face is crowned by a large, bulbous nose.

When not in armor, he prefers rich, dark colors; burgundy, chocolate, black. His choice articles of clothing are heavy tunics and long, fur-trimmed cloaks, as they feed a sense of luxury that he is seldom able to explore. But they are just that, for him: rare. He seldom removes his armor, only doffing it to sleep much of the time. A relic of a time when monsters lurked around every rock in Amell and every one of Skellige’s trees, he is determined to always be prepared to fight. Said armor is very, very precious to him. It’s a hauberk of heavy steel rings backed with brown leather--straps buckled with steel--and worn over a brown linen gambeson. A shoulderbelt of pouches--potions, tools, supplies--run across his chest, affording more protection if needed. His arms are protected by heavy plate gauntlets, and a similar situation--greaves and sabatons of unyielding steel--holds for his legs. All of it is covered in marks where it’s been hacked or smashed or torn, but lovingly repaired every time. Aidann is very attached to his armor.

Finally, we come to his tools of the trade: the swords, and the slightly unique property that his have. The typical-sized blades of most Witchers felt just a touch too small for him; with his larger frame and bulkier build, they felt more like broadswords than longswords. And so he custom-commissioned a pair of Witcher’s blades with blades perhaps four to five inches longer than are found on most of his school. They are, in the way of Witchers, slung over his shoulder, the hilts bound in leather. Each has an artfully-worked bear’s head, perpetually snarling, carved into the pommel. And as a Witcher of the Bear school, Aidann makes additional use, near-unique to his school, of a light crossbow strapped to his back next to his swords. It is a utilitarian construction, but grants a certain completeness to his appearance: armed to the teeth (one of which has been replaced with a replica carved of silver, after being knocked out in a brawl decades ago).

Personality: Aidann has a complicated personality that stems from one of the more important ways he views the world: he’s old. A relic from a time where Witchers were viewed less as a menace and more as a terrifying but necessary evil, he has a hopeless streak of...well, hope. He wants to see the best in people. He really does. He still remembers when he would return from a hunt, a wyvern’s head slung over his broad shoulder, and people would thank him profusely, pay him his due, and see him out of town. Never really offer him a place--a Witcher is always a Witcher--but perhaps not throw him out simply for being one. Never see him step into an inn, and decide that despite being largely vacant, they had no space for the night. And so every time he finishes a hunt--fewer and farther between now, so different from when he left the then-thriving fortress of Haern Cadwch--he nurses a desperate hope that they’ll thank him the way they used to. And every time he finishes a hunt, his hope gets kicked down again as doors slam and all-too-often, he goes without his pay.

He’s never angry over it, though. Not really. Rarely bitter. No, beyond his personable (for a Witcher) exterior, Aidann is desperately sad. But more than that; he’s...misplaced. His time has passed, and he knows it. There is a lesser need in the world for a Witcher now, and even room for one.

Yet despite that bitterness, that feeling of disjunction, he can’t completely suppress his care for people. He’s seen so much heartache, so much pain, both his own and others, that every time he enters a village in search of a contract, he tells himself that he’s only there for that contract. If there’s one to be had, great, he’s in luck. He’ll hunt the monster down, kill it, collect his reward, and leave. If not, then it’s as he expected anyway, and he’ll move on to the next village, or town, or city. And yet...as much as he tells himself that, as much as he knows it’ll lead to disappointment and pain more often than not, whenever someone on the corner begs for help--cattle taken, purse stolen, house robbed or burned to the ground--he stops, listens, and does his damndest to help them. Perhaps when he stops, they won’t listen to him. They’ll shy away, make signs of good luck or warding of evil, or attack him. But there’s always that chance that perhaps, they’ll tell him what’s wrong. And when he returns the cows, or brings back the money and thieves and arsonists...he almost feels like a Witcher again.

There is lesser need for a Witcher now, it’s true. And yet here he stands.

History: Nearly two centuries ago, a Skellige man named Oisin na Diarmaid was trekking along a lonely island road on Ard Skellig. His wife, a lovely lass named Bronagh, had been on the island instead of their home for many months, and now was heavy with child and almost to bear. He was in high spirits heading to his home on Hindarsfjall: He’d stayed a bit longer to speak with some old friends, and now was returning home.

Then he froze on hearing a high-pitched screaming, and threw himself to the ground as a massive griffin’s talons scythed the air where he’d been standing a moment before.

He scrambled to his feet and ran, screaming for help and putting every ounce of his energy into dodging the monster. And then, just as it looked as though Oisin’s time had come, the creature screamed in pain as a flash of pale metal sheared into its wing-joint from behind. He could only watch as the strange young man circled the griffin, darting in and out with what seemed impossible speed, crippling its wings before finally dealing a death-blow to the neck. Stunned, disbelieving, impossibly relieved, when the man sheathed his sword--why did he have two?--Oisin could only gabble out a vague promise for...well, anything at all. A life saved? No price was too high. And so the young man--a Witcher--invoked upon Oisin the Law of Surprise. The next gift he received--no matter whether it was a lamb, or a fortune’s worth of diamonds--would belong to the Witcher, who Oisin later learned was named Kondrat, in five years’ time. Nod, nod, nod, agreement. A life saved. No price too high, and certainly not that. And with that, Kondrat vanished into the mists of Skellige.

Oisin hastened back to Kaer Muire: he wanted, more than anything, to embrace his wife Bronagh, and to celebrate the fact that he was alive. So imagine his surprise when he stumbled into the healers’ hut to find Bronagh holding out to him an infant. “Look, Oisin,” she sobbed, beaming, “a gift from Freya herself.”

And with that, Oisin’s face grew ashen, and his heart fell.

Five years later, when he awoke to milk his cattle, he found Kondrat outside of his house, and worldless, he carefully carried out the sleeping child, named Aidann. In his gruff voice, he whispered to the Witcher: “you take care of him now, y’hear?”

A nod, and Kondrat was gone, and with him Aidann.

Aidann only vaguely remembers the faces of Bronagh and Oisin. Kondrat was more of a parent to him than either, in his own strict way. Haern Cadwch was a hard place to grow up, and for the first year or so, he desperately missed both his mother and father. But he grew past it, and trained hard. The Trial of Grasses, so often lethal, refused to let him die, and he emerged from it with the necessary mutations to be a Witcher. And so began his training in earnest, and he took up the silver sword.

For many years, he traveled as an itinerant monster hunter, the Path of a Witcher, hunting any monster that dare show its face: a higher vampire in Novigrad, a swarm of the normally-solitary royal griffins terrorizing the east of Temeria, a slithering horde of lamiae in the deep Nilfgaardian south that had lured many men to their envenomed doom...the contracts were as varied as they were numerous, and his purse grew heavy with coin. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the world changed. Monsters grew less common. Coin grew shorter. And most of all, people grew harder. Aidann had always thrived off of the gratitude given to him by those that he’d helped, even more than he’d thrived off of their coin. Sometimes, he would simply let them keep the money in the past, as long as he had enough. No more. Times grew scarce, and contracts became fewer and farther between, and smaller. A rogue forktail here, a dawnwraith there...

And then everything came to a head as the riots began. In just a day, Haern Cadwch was gone. So was his surrogate father, Kondrat. Perhaps seventy years old at the time, Aidann fled his decades-long home, the place he’d returned to time and time again, the place where he’d been mutated and seen mutation happen, the place he’d grown into the man that he’d become. And everywhere he went, he saw the same, decade by decade. The pogrom of the Wolves. The steady dying-off of the Cats and Vipers. Witchers were slowly, surely, going extinct.

But what was he to do? Though he’d learned the way to make boys to Witcher--the mutagens were etched into his mind--what would he do with the knowledge? His school was gone. So few left, only occasionally passed on the road. As were the supplies to make the mutagens for the Trial of the Grasses. So what was a Witcher to do, when there is no home left to return to? The only thing left was to make his home on the road.

So, for many years hence, he’s been wandering. A contract here, a contract there. Even smaller than before, no more than a few wraiths, or perhaps a group of drowners stopping fishermen from getting to their boats. A far cry from the grand challenges that he once faced. He overwinters wherever he can. Increasingly often, he spends time in Skellige, finding the climate there to his liking, and it's perhaps more wild--with more contracts to be found--than most of the Continent. One day, he has promised himself, he will return to Haern Cadwch. One day, the Witcher School of Bears will be restored. And then, perhaps, he will be able to rest from his Path.

But for now? The road awaits.

Skills: Unsurprisingly, Aidann is by far the most adept as swordplay out of all the Witcher's arts. Never a great hand at signs, he relies on his armor instead of Quen to get him out of a jam (that’s not to say he doesn’t use Quen or other Signs at all, but he hasn’t put much time into training them in comparison to his more martial skill sets). He’s an exceptionally aggressive fighter, surprising some who expect a man in heavy armor to play more defensively; he advances relentlessly, striking as hard as he can as often as he can.

That said, he’s a man who’s experienced much in his life, and he knows when he’s outmatched by something. When he is, he’s much more careful, staying back and using his crossbow to slowly whittle foes down before moving in for the kill once they’re weakened.

A very important thing to mention: he has great difficulty with highly mobile adversaries. While he can hold them down with Axii or blast them down with Aard, neither of these signs is very developed in him, and so they often dodge away, or retake the skies, before he can actually strike them after disabling them. It becomes a frustrating, monotonous fight, plinking away with crossbow bolts until one of them finally hits something important, or simply waiting for them to come too close and then lash out with a sword.

And finally, something that people don’t usually expect out of him, perhaps because of how little he touches on Signs: he is quite skilled at Witcher alchemy. He’s an old, old Witcher, and he’s had many years to practice and perfect some of his potions. While eschewing some of the recipes that he finds more niche (‘I can already see in the dark very well. What need have I for the Cat potion?’), he always carries with him the ingredients to make most of the useful potions that he might need in a situation, as well as a variety of oils. While he doesn’t actually carry the potions themselves, he’s always ready to prepare for a contract.

Specialty:Aidann’s specialty is martial combat. While he’s fairly skilled at alchemy and rather weak at Signing--only using signs if doing so is pretty much necessary for success--he’s a paragon of martial skill, moving far more quickly than such a bulky man ordinarily could and striking like a lightning bolt.

Equipment:

• Alchemy supplies: herbs, monster parts, alcohol, and of course, a small mortar and pestle, spread out in pouches on his shoulderbelt and his regular belt, all across his big body.
• A whetstone and a small skin of oil; need to keep the blades sharp, after all.
• And what would a Witcher be without his Witcher medallion? It is the medallion of the Bear school, carved in an artful depiction of a snarling bear.

Weapons:

• A large steel longsword with a cruciform hilt. It has a 45-inch blade and a proportionally-sized grip wrapped in dark brown leather with a ring about the middle to assist in two-handing. Nothing about it is particularly fancy, but he’s taken care of it well, and so it’s polished brightly and very sharp. The pommel is carved with a snarling bear’s face, very similar to that of his medallion.
• A silver longsword, about the same length as the steel. It has a cruciform hilt as well; in fact,, the hilt looks almost exactly the same as the steel’s including the bear’s face on the pommel, but for the fact that the leather wrapping it is black instead of brown and the guard is angled slightly towards the blade.
• A small handheld crossbow made of wood and steel, and a quiver strapped to his waist filled with various bolts; broadheads, bodkins, and bludgeons, all made up in both steel and silver versions. There are perhaps five of each type, for a total of thirty.

Armor:

• The previously-mentioned armor: heavy chainmail backed with scarred, scuffed brown leather worn over a brown linen gambeson to cushion blows from maces, hammers, and other weapons that chainmail wouldn’t do much to stop, as well as heavy plates worn both on the legs and on the arms.

Misc:

• A tinderbox containing flint, steel, and charcloth.
• A letter from a young lady that he was once a lover to, nearly a century ago. She’s long-dead now.
• Enough rations, mostly dried meats and hard breads, for a conservative week.

He carries little else; much of the space in his pouches is filled by the alchemy supplies and tinderbox, so he has little other room since he refuses to carry a haversack or knapsack. He sleeps under the stars quite often, and when he does so, he continues to wear his armor.