Robena Coilleghille
The War Champion, returned pilgrim from distant Jerusalem
Accomplished
Held in honor and acclaim
Never forgetful of my mortality.
Dark forests breed strong knights.
Much has changed in the Bear Knight's absence. The land has rotted, the king is mad, and evil taints the hearts of once gracious knights. This is not the home remembered by the slender squire girl setting off on her first adventure.
Much has changed on the journey too. No longer do you see a tall, lanky willow-branch of a girl drowning in her tangled bearskin cloak. Now there stands before you a giant of a warrior with lance and axe and armour and the scars where armour fails. She has lost her skittish English mare, replaced with a huge and cold-blooded draft horse. She has lost her nervous stutter and wide-eyed curiosity, replaced with an austere economy of word and deed. She has lost the lady she was sworn to serve, and all of her brash and unseemly influences - replaced with a heartache and powerful sense of purpose. Her coin purse is empty, her traveling companions are lost, and too many innocences have been left behind.
Many of these things you will know. Songs speed ahead of her and her constant delays, for never has she let a bandit or beast or blackguard pass her by. It has been a long road home, the kind of tale that makes girls dream of the Holy Land and the legend the journey will make of them.
But even still she does not have the manner of one who has returned home. There is still more to do.
My household and lands are in disarray. Once I held a place of honour in the household of Lady Alitel Sandsfern. As a squire chosen from the common folk for strength and courage, I was to serve as knight and bodyguard to the young countess. Once these lands had great orchards, meadows and pastures, forests and timber, enormous wealth and a fortified citadel overlooking a fast-flowing river. Now the tower is a scorched ruin, stone melted and fused, the woods are wild and overgrown, and the population has fled.
My arms and armour befit a questing knight. Helm, mail, lance, and great woodsman's axe - all as befit my rank, all worn from use. A bow and arrow are fitted for hunting small game, and come with a hunter's patience. A jeweled dagger is all that indicates I ever sat close to wealth, though it has since tasted both bread and blood. My bearskin cloak covers me, and to this day more than a dozen daggers and arrows are stuck within its tangled thickness. My warhorse moves with a ponderousness that has once seen a priest attempt to exorcise from him the demon of sloth - though watch your apples closely for he can strike like an adder when properly motivated.
My heraldry was once forest green and ivory white in checker patterns, though the road has rendered them black-grey and weathered cream. My crest is that of a great Irish-haired bear. I wear a tabard and a pale space on my index finger where a ring was once exchanged for coin. In one of my many packs I carry two formal dresses; one in the style of the Byzantines, and a much less modest one in the style of the Persians. I wear raking scars across my face, shoulders and chest from some ferocious animal. My left hand's scars suggest burns. No scars mark my back.
My countenance is shaped by the wilderness. Stone green eyes soften and heavy hands become gentle as they watch the wind and reach for a flute that they might sing to it in turn. On the soft grass of the hills, in the shadow of ancient trees, wild hair flowing with the breeze, I seem to fit in the world perfectly. Such harmony is difficult to find in the world of men. There I must duck my head when going through doorways, I must sacrifice many good combs to bring my raven hair to terms, I must bow far more deeply than my peers to bring my head lower than my sovereign, and I must remember that things are perhaps more fragile than I would like them to be.
My name is Robena Coilleghille, though once (and perhaps still) I dreamed of taking another's.
Bold +1
Good 0
Strong +2
Wary +1
Weird -1
With my full panoply of battle, I have 4 harm and 4 armour.
I have the right to be known by reputation. When I meet someone who should know of me, roll +Strong. On a 10+ they have heard of me, and I declare what they have heard. On a 7-9, they know simply to admire or fear me. On a 6-, I yet again curse the name of the bard Yomdaeler who decided to use my name to revitalize her failing career.
I have the right to own an enchanted item. The monstrous, scarred questing-bear I fought had a hide that could not be pierced by any weapon - I slew it unarmed. Its fur now provides +1 armour and immunity to any surprise attacks.
In single combat, I have the right to spend 1 more than my roll would allow. No mysterious skill empowers me; I am simply larger and stronger than the majority of those I encounter.
I have the right to own a trained warhorse and own a kite shield. My current horse is named Apricot. I wish I had the good sense to take some apricot seeds back to England with me. Fool.
I will live to be one hundred.
Experiences:
The War Champion, returned pilgrim from distant Jerusalem
Accomplished
Held in honor and acclaim
Never forgetful of my mortality.
Dark forests breed strong knights.
Much has changed in the Bear Knight's absence. The land has rotted, the king is mad, and evil taints the hearts of once gracious knights. This is not the home remembered by the slender squire girl setting off on her first adventure.
Much has changed on the journey too. No longer do you see a tall, lanky willow-branch of a girl drowning in her tangled bearskin cloak. Now there stands before you a giant of a warrior with lance and axe and armour and the scars where armour fails. She has lost her skittish English mare, replaced with a huge and cold-blooded draft horse. She has lost her nervous stutter and wide-eyed curiosity, replaced with an austere economy of word and deed. She has lost the lady she was sworn to serve, and all of her brash and unseemly influences - replaced with a heartache and powerful sense of purpose. Her coin purse is empty, her traveling companions are lost, and too many innocences have been left behind.
Many of these things you will know. Songs speed ahead of her and her constant delays, for never has she let a bandit or beast or blackguard pass her by. It has been a long road home, the kind of tale that makes girls dream of the Holy Land and the legend the journey will make of them.
But even still she does not have the manner of one who has returned home. There is still more to do.
My household and lands are in disarray. Once I held a place of honour in the household of Lady Alitel Sandsfern. As a squire chosen from the common folk for strength and courage, I was to serve as knight and bodyguard to the young countess. Once these lands had great orchards, meadows and pastures, forests and timber, enormous wealth and a fortified citadel overlooking a fast-flowing river. Now the tower is a scorched ruin, stone melted and fused, the woods are wild and overgrown, and the population has fled.
My arms and armour befit a questing knight. Helm, mail, lance, and great woodsman's axe - all as befit my rank, all worn from use. A bow and arrow are fitted for hunting small game, and come with a hunter's patience. A jeweled dagger is all that indicates I ever sat close to wealth, though it has since tasted both bread and blood. My bearskin cloak covers me, and to this day more than a dozen daggers and arrows are stuck within its tangled thickness. My warhorse moves with a ponderousness that has once seen a priest attempt to exorcise from him the demon of sloth - though watch your apples closely for he can strike like an adder when properly motivated.
My heraldry was once forest green and ivory white in checker patterns, though the road has rendered them black-grey and weathered cream. My crest is that of a great Irish-haired bear. I wear a tabard and a pale space on my index finger where a ring was once exchanged for coin. In one of my many packs I carry two formal dresses; one in the style of the Byzantines, and a much less modest one in the style of the Persians. I wear raking scars across my face, shoulders and chest from some ferocious animal. My left hand's scars suggest burns. No scars mark my back.
My countenance is shaped by the wilderness. Stone green eyes soften and heavy hands become gentle as they watch the wind and reach for a flute that they might sing to it in turn. On the soft grass of the hills, in the shadow of ancient trees, wild hair flowing with the breeze, I seem to fit in the world perfectly. Such harmony is difficult to find in the world of men. There I must duck my head when going through doorways, I must sacrifice many good combs to bring my raven hair to terms, I must bow far more deeply than my peers to bring my head lower than my sovereign, and I must remember that things are perhaps more fragile than I would like them to be.
My name is Robena Coilleghille, though once (and perhaps still) I dreamed of taking another's.
Bold +1
Good 0
Strong +2
Wary +1
Weird -1
With my full panoply of battle, I have 4 harm and 4 armour.
I have the right to be known by reputation. When I meet someone who should know of me, roll +Strong. On a 10+ they have heard of me, and I declare what they have heard. On a 7-9, they know simply to admire or fear me. On a 6-, I yet again curse the name of the bard Yomdaeler who decided to use my name to revitalize her failing career.
I have the right to own an enchanted item. The monstrous, scarred questing-bear I fought had a hide that could not be pierced by any weapon - I slew it unarmed. Its fur now provides +1 armour and immunity to any surprise attacks.
In single combat, I have the right to spend 1 more than my roll would allow. No mysterious skill empowers me; I am simply larger and stronger than the majority of those I encounter.
I have the right to own a trained warhorse and own a kite shield. My current horse is named Apricot. I wish I had the good sense to take some apricot seeds back to England with me. Fool.
I will live to be one hundred.
Experiences:
