Name

Borslev "Bors" Titanstone

Race

Mountain Dwarf - Titanite Clan

Gender

Male

Age

71 (dwarves age slightly slower then many races. He's the equivalent of a 30 year old Human)

Appearance

Black Haired, ruddy pale skin, grey eyes, grey like granite, his eyes are lidded heavily, unused to sunlight, used to the dark of caves and the red of lamp light or candle light. A full black beard running down to his waist, with the tip just reaching below his groin, thick long black whiskers, often braided by his own hand, with a few small effigies hidden within the braids. The dwarf weighs atleast 277 pounds of solid dwarven muscle, most of it in his chest, arms and neck which are thick and corded. His build is squat and powerful, muscle all about his chest, neck, arms and shoulders, built from hard work, and deep hardship, every second of which he's damned proud of. He wears thick leather clothing, of dwarven design, which before it was taken from him was the padding under a Dwarven Deep Miners Adamant Steel armor. Now it's one of his very few outfits, and damn if anyone is going to take it from him. He has a pair of rings, one of his left pinky the other on his right forefinger. The left one is marked with the Titanite Clan sigil of two crossed hammers on a blue azurite background. The right one is the sigil of the Titanstone Family Mining Company, a pick crossed over a mining charge laid with silver on a onyx stone in a silver band. He broke the skull and nearly killed the guard who tried to take them, the other guards left it be after he near throttled a second guard of the rings.

Personality

Bors is gruff, easy to anger like alot of dwarves can be yet kind and initially seems like an affable and courteous type. Far from the kind of person who should be in the Maw. Until we realize all that kindness and courtesy hides a seething rage and easy wish to hurt people. He can be laughing and popping dirty jokes and limericks one second before launching into a near psychopathic rage and wailing on someone with anger controlled strikes of brutal hands and feet.

The dwarf exhibits all the hidden signs of some who temper is held barely in check by a powerful willpower and need to be useful.

Likes - Good tools, beer/ale/whiskey, the quiet of a deep mine and the strike of an axe pick on stone, finding that rare treasure in the dark of the mine.

Dislikes - Braggarts, loud environments, rowdy company, getting a raw deal.

Background

It's a fine tale we weave sometimes.

Borslev Titanstone, born into the parent family of the Titanite Clan. Third son to Lord Mine Keeper Talosin Titanstone and his wife Lady Keykeeper of the Mine Reia Titanstone nee Stormpick of the Stormstone Clan. Both of Bors parents coming from valued and powerful families. The Stormstones being one of the most wealthy when it came to property among the Clans. While his father being the current Lord Mine Keeper of the Titanite mining empire, fourth largest mining family and company in the dwarven under kingdom of The Westerlands, and the other three mining clans just barely kept their lead out of yields rather then through sheer size. So Bors was brought up in very prestigious settings. A fine strapping lad from.bieth. coming into the world with lusty wails and has been said to have kicked his father in the nose when his father first came to pick him up from his mother's arms.

But as fits the third son he was told if he inherits it'd be only if his older brothers were to die or be exiled. Bors didn't mind.

He threw himself into his education as soon as he could. Dwarven schools being more apprenticeships then human schools. He bounced from master to master for the years between 9 and 13, getting a taste for the 5 main trades of the dwarven kind, black smithing, silver smithing, gold smithing, brewing and mining. With sometime also looking at soldiering, growing food and artificing. He took to mining with gusto, apprenticing to one of his uncles in one of the Titanite cadet families the Titanhammer family. Taught how to read write and figure beside his lessons and training in strength, endurance, tunnel digging and how to handle an axe pick properly. The details of how to spot hidden cracks in stone and what to watch for to escape accidentally waking the things that sleep in the deep of the earth. His early life into his 30s was spent learning and finsingnhis place in the mine. When he reached 35 he was asked to pick an advanced vocation, and chose the role of Deep Miner. Those dwarves who brave the deepest part of a mine places where a pick hasn't struck yet, where things in the deep may lurk, a place where the dim light of a candle maybe the only light you see for weeks before you break into a hidden cavern of diamond or mythril deep in the earth.

Upon reaching 40 he returned to his family, welcomed by his father and mother, and officially welcomed into the main family mines. It wad one of the finest days of his life. And he worked until 50 years old without problems.

Until his 57th year. He had gone out to a tavern with his mining squad. This was the day he killed for the first time that wasn't some deep mine beast or feral goblinoid mine invader. A bar fight broke out, but Bors believed he was far enough away he could ignore it. And putting it out of his mind he drank and ate. And was happy with his ale and meal that he didn't hear the fight getting closet. Until someone crashed unto him, and his ale, stew, bread and waiting bread pudding ended up into his beard. He got to his feet, turned and swung he heavy steel tankard in his hand at the closest member of the fight. The dwarf went stiff and pitched to the floor. Unbeknownst to Bors the dwarf was dead a single hefty blow having killed him, even more unknown was the dwarf had been the captain of a noted mining militia. Bors left before the death wad found out. But was found the day after as he wad making ready to head into the mine. Bors was taken away and questioned, only after 7 hours did his father find out and by them Bors had been beaten, the Militia c9lonel trying to make his confess to a murder despite it being an accident. His father and his lawyers though showed up and cowed the colonel into leaving ir be. But this was the start of Bors internalized rage. He stuffed all that anger over being interrogated down for now, holding it deep deep done like the mine and cave passages he traveled in.

It was a few weeks later when he killed for his second time, a member of that militia tailed him and tried to meters out revenge foe the killing of the captain. The soldier jumped Bors and tried to choke him out between mine passages. But the big dwarf that he is Bors lifted the dwarven soldier and in a fit of anger pitched him down a mine shaft. Bors reported the assault this time. But he secretly reveled in having killed the dwarf.

Over the next year he'd be challenged too no less the four duels by progressively higher ranked dwarven militia and soldiers. Until one fat he was in the Grand Arena of the Dwarven High Kings Hold, facing off against a General of the Dwarven Self Defense Force. The kings envoy had told him specifically that he was going to throw this fight, to stop this farce of high ranked dwarves either dying or being humbled by a mere deep Miner. The duel was one sided alright. But this was the first time that Bors family got to watch that hidden rage in their scion. The general came into the arena decked out in ceremonial leather armor made for show with a ceremonial double bladed battle axe. Bors entered with his axe pick sharpened to a gleaming finish, his heavy thick Adamant armor, freshly mended with new plates and chain mail added. The fight was one sided alright. Bors' anger and rage was silent only voiced by his soft grunts of effort as he hacked and pierced at the general with powerful swings. Eleven minutes the duel lasted. Eleven minutes where Bors ended up leaving nine huge gashes in the general armor, nine bleeding holes. And Bors only grew to hate and rage even more when the High King stopped the duel then the High King of the Dwarves ruled in favor of the general even as the general lay bleeding. Bors swallowed that rage and anger. And left. Returning to the mine, but dwarves knew something was deep inside Bors something angry, something waiting.

It'd be in his 68th year that he was strangely called to the High Hold again. And when he would kill his highest ranked people ever. He was shown into a parlor in a very elegant restaurant. Met by three people. A human envoy from the Westerland court, a Dwarven Thane Lord. And Prince of the Dwarven Realm Naluir Goldbeard, son of the High King. A noted deep.miner sitting in the same room as such august people. What the hell?

Soon though Bors rage and anger began to boil roiling and seeth. The thane and the prince had invited Bors not ad a guest but as a joke, they recounted Bors duels like they were children's tails to the human calling Bors and his family liars and cheap fools. The laughter and gaiety were loud and raucous. Until everything went quiet. For an extended time. Finally a servant entered the room. And found only Bors alive. Covered in a layer of blood and viscera. The envoy dead, the thane dead the prince...hung from a rafter. All showing signs of being beaten and killed in a rage filled attack.

His father couldn't safe him now, not when it was recounted Bors had just continued eating and drinking even as the Hold Guards arrived and arrested him. And certainly couldn't help him when during the trial before the mourning high King it was retold how Bors had nearly beaten the interrogator to death as well.

The deepest gaol mines were too good for Borslev Titanstone, it was said, execution was too good. The High King petitioned The Human king to send Bors to the Maw.

Yes it's a fine, terrible story we weave.

Talents

Mining - No stranger to moving and working in Co fined spaces, a close understanding of the hazards of the deep places.

Explosives Training - Learned in the creation, usage of and capabilities of explosives, especially in the case opening charges.

Heavy Arms and Armor training - A deep Miner will live or die by how well maintained his armor and axe pick are.

Close Quarters Fighter - Used to close spaces and fight so close you can feel your opponents breath and smell their sweat.

Understanding of Old terrors - Has been witness to some of the things that live in the deep deep dark places of the world, things, beasts and demons that some can only imagine.

Flaws

Deep Rage - Bors is not well. He appears to be kind and approachable but deep in the core of his being, is a rage that is so lead dense and hard as steel that its almost supplanted his other emotions.

Light of the sun - Ah fuck that's bright ahh why am I up here!

Fear of Old Terrors - Once you've seen something made of shadow, lightning and beaks boil up out of hard stone and swallow another dwarf whole, and leave you alone with not a single sound made even you would fear them.

Lust for the Deep Rage - I think he likes it...dear gods...I think he likes it!

I need to mine, I want to mine! - Mining is his coping mechanism, so to keep him calm he's allowed to help broaden the Maws underground facilities...under close and strict watch of course.

Equipment

Full suit of Adamant Steel armor - made from mythril, mixed with dwarven steel, meteorite iron and diamond dust, a suit of Adamant armor is the only thing that can stand the pressures of the deep mines and the shadowed claws and teeth of the things down there

Head torch - Candle powered head torch casting a small pool of yellow light

Deep Mines axe pick - a mining pick and a battle axe married as one versatile tool

Deep Mines Face Mask - Part breathing mask part face protection one very scary metal visage.

Miscellaneous
If I think of more I'll put it here

Name

Qal

Race

Satyr

Gender

Non-binary

Age

27

Appearance

Personality

Qal is a very introspective person, quiet and reserved, they often seem to be observing a situation before acting. The real truth is that Qal often gets lost in thought and zones out, and usually only tunes back in when they are required to, making them quite good at acting quickly and faking that they know what’s going on.

They do prefer the company of animal companions over sentient beings, but that’s mostly due to not knowing very many people - living alone deep in a distant forest doesn't often give Qal the opportunity to make friends with people.

The beast is always hungry and enjoys the taste of human the most, though it will happily eat anything humanoid. It will not eat any creature with magic, and often leaves them alone unless provoked. It tends to attack the strongest target first.

Likes: rodents, fungi, hand-crafted trinkets, rain, thought-provoking questions, spleens
Dislikes: large birds, procrastinating, assumptions, intestines

Background

Qal was cursed to turn into a mindless beast every new moon by a jealous druid who hated Qal's natural connection with nature. The cursed beast was meant to hunt and kill the forest creatures until the forest corrected the balance of things and killed Qal. However, even as a beast, Qal could not bring themself to harm a single creature in the forest, and instead fled, finding their way to a small village and slaughtering the entire population in their bloodlust.

After that, Qal tried to look for a cure and locked themself up every new moon, but over time, they started to connect with their beast. Feeling bad about keeping a part of themself locked up, both metaphorically and physically, Qal stopped holding back and let themself run free during the new moon.

Of course, word of a monster going on a rampage every month eventually got around and rumors of this beast being an old demon accomplice of the Fallen King started to gain traction. Hunters tracked Qal down after a new moon, and since Qal was no longer a beast during the day, the hunters turned Qal in instead of killing them - though after being imprisoned, Qal wonders if dying would have been the kinder fate.

With nothing to do but think and talk to the rats, Qal has become closer to their beast, and while they haven’t fully mastered it, Qal has started to learn how to transform outside of a new moon. With this stronger connection - or because Qal is no longer fighting the part of them that is the beast - Qal no longer completely forgets everything while transformed, experiencing it much like a dream: with little control and a vague remembering upon waking up.

Talents

• has immense knowledge of plants for alchemical purposes & knows recipes for various healing potions and poisons
• has an incredible sense of sight and smell
• always knows which way is North
• can talk to most animals, though not always accurately

• the beast has incredible strength and senses - 10x that of Qal
• the beast can detect any traces of magic
• the beast moves so fast, most believe it teleports - only those with extraordinary vision or senses can tell when it moves
• the beast can freeze anything it touches and always exudes a cold aura
• the beast is immune to cold and ice
• the beast's hide is tough and is difficult to cut through
• the beast is stronger and faster the darker and colder it is

Flaws

• turns into a beast every new moon
• is unable to ignore an animal in distress
• is immediately distrustful of anyone with magic

• the beast is very sensitive to bright light
• the beast has very little intelligence - if things can't be smashed to solve the problem, it is unsolvable to the beast
• the beast is considered a demon and shares a weakness to celestial/radiant attacks
• the beast does not like fire - for both how hot and how bright it is

Equipment

• squirrel skull necklace - made from their first familiar, Hawl, as a memento to remember him
• bag of various herbs and plants
• belt of bottles and vials - some filled, most empty (8x empty, 2x healing salves, 1x acid potion)

Miscellaneous

The beast is based off of a wendigo, and the transformations after Qal fully connects to the beast will function much like the Hulk does. The druid who cursed Qal is named Riea and she is a human.

Name: Christoph
"Family name? Don't worry, if I have any family left, you can rest assured that they have forgotten me."

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Character Age: 24
"25? 26? 35? Apologies, I haven't really been keeping count."

Appearance: "By all means, feast your eyes." He says, smiling.
Christoph is a well groomed man. Clean shaven, with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. It's difficult to tell his true age, but he looks like a young man - a somewhat thin frame is accented by light musculature. A mischievous smile seems perpetually plastered on his face. His once fine clothes lie somewhat tattered on his body, and his hands seem constantly on the move, fiddling with whatever they can reach.

Personality: A liar and a charlatan, it's hard to take Christoph's words at face value. He has no regard for the past and little concern for the future. Life is one big game to him, and all he does is play. Such lowlives can be found in droves in the back alleys of any city of the Westerlands, but what sets Christoph apart is his unrelenting thirst for gambling. He plays large with every bet, wins a fortune and risks it all again. He has played every game there is to play, clutching glory from the depths of despair and defeat from the hand of victory. Despite the innumerable setbakcs he has doubtlessly suffered, no loss has ever quenched his penchanct for gambling. His habits have generated much infamy for this man, and along with the powers granted to him by his infernal patron, he has become a very dangerous person.
"A liar, you say? I do my very best to be honest. Am I really at fault for the misunderstandings of others?"

Background: Ask Christoph about his story and he'll tell you any number of conflicting things. A writer, a mucisian, a priest, a stage actor, an orphan... But some things are known for certain. People of his disposition tend to not last very long, losing their life to some godforsaken gambit or getting on the wrong side of a powerful man. But the gangs that prowled the back alleys of the Westerlands have been encountering Christoph for decades. Rumor has it that he struck a deal with a demon, as those in extreme circumstances are so wont to do. But it wasn't strength, or wealth, or life that he traded for. Somehow, he had struck a bargain for a part of the demon's own power.

In the years since that fateful day he spent every day much the same, only he no longer gambled with wealth. His new gift allowed him to usurp the immaterial; to take their names, their social status, their lives, like one would take their coin. The sad irony of his newfound prosperity, however, was that it never sated Christoph's love for gambling. It seemed like every day he took one more stupid risk, one more bad bet. Just a little more and it would all be over. Somehow things always went well, and he would always be pulled out of disaster at the last second. Like some watchful deity, or crafty demon was looking over his shoulder in amusement. But one day, his luck finally ran dry when he took the wrong thing from the wrong person.

Really, it wasn't his fault. How was he to know that the noble lady he had seduced was the daughter of a Duke? And how would he know that she was the unrequited paramour of the newly reformed Kingdom's prince? So when an angry young noble arrived in front of him barling obscenities, Christoph did what he always did. He made a bet with him, and he won. Christoph waited comfortably, prepared for any revenge thr foppish young noble cpuld bring. What he couldn't have anticipated was half the guards of the capital coming after him, along with the of the girl's father. After a long, harrowing chase, he was finally brought down. His crimes were heavy, but in light of his... unusual talents, he was broughtto the Maw. Perhaps they could put his talents to use for the glory of the kingdom.
"Oh come now, I only took a few years from his lifespan. He's the prince, he has plenty to go around."

Talents:

• Dark Wager
  Borrowing the power of demonic contracts, Christoph has the power to offer (and receive in return) anything in the world, under certain conditions. Firstly, the offered and gained items must be equivalent in value. Secondly, the items must be offered as a wager on a game. Lastly, the game must be agreed on by all parties involved. The game in question is moderated by an unseen arbiter, and rewards are distributed immediately on victory. Winner takes all. Naturally, only the truly desperate would trade their greatest gifts, and Christoph has burned his bridges many times over. He has retained some wagers he has gained over the years; the ability to run quickly and the ability to temporarily gain an orc's strength chief among them. But the rest have been gambled away.
• Infernal Luck
  It seems that Christoph's infernal patron has a vested interest in seeing him live. Whether it's simply to secure his investment or out of some dark amusement, no one can say. He occasionally shows his favour in subtle ways, and only in the direst moments. A small nudge here, a little slip there, just enough to tip the scales in contractee's favour. It's hard to tell when and where the shadowy fiend has interfered, Christoph only knows that he has, and will do so again. But he knows that, if he wants his patron to have a more direct hand in things, he needs to be ready to lose something.
• Sleight of Hand
  Despite his insistence that he does not cheat during his games, Christoph has considerable expertise in underhanded tactics. Whether it's from natural talent or carefully honed technique, his excellent dexterity allows him to manipulate small objects in subtle ways.
• Glib Tongue
  Christoph speaks in a very insincere manner, making it difficult for others to believe in his honesty. But on the other hand, it makes it very easy for him to weave truth into lies, to weave a web of deceit around others.

Flaws: First and foremost amongst his weaknesses is his love for gambling. He will never take the safe path when a risky option is available. It's less of a thought and more of a compulsion of his. He finds it difficult to control himself, and usually will not even attempt to do so. And secondly, he is not a very potent fighter. Christoph's talents lie in subtler fields, gleaning information with daggers in the dark. He leaves the fighting for others to handle.
"I live to gamble and I gamble to live. Unfortunately, I haven't had much time for other pursuits."

Equipment: A deck of cards, a pair of bone dice.
"Unenchanted, of course. I never cheat in my games, whatever help that is to you."

Ferns the Frail


Half-Orc


Male


33


Feras isn't your typical half-orc. Rather than bulging with meaty muscle his build is lean and lithe, more dancer than prize fighter. Hes still as tall as the rest of his kin though, easily standing over 6 foot with change. His skin, where it is not criss-crossed with silvery-grey scarring, is a pale green. His hair is dark, grown long and braided on one side of his head, shorn to the skin on the other. That, coupled with his winter blue eyes lends him a rather striking appearance.


Calm and thoughtful, well-spoken and better educated than his background would suggest, Feras is a true oddity. His wry observations and sardonic wit bely his quick mind.

Life as both a Half-Orc and a peasant has taught Feras that life isn't fair, especially not for people that look like him. He has learnt that the only way to get through life is to be careful, to consider all the angles, and plan for all eventualities. If that all fails, then it pays to be adaptable, and he's anything if not adaptable. If there's an easy way through life, he hasn't found it yet, but he's working on it.

All that said, he's still a half-orc, his rage runs as hot as any other greenskin's. He's just learnt to hide it better. Piss him off and he might not charge you down with axe drawn then and there, but he'll mark the slight down and plan to return the favour in future. Revenge is a dish best served cold, after all.

If you ask him he'd say he prefers the simple things in life, though as it's only the simple things that have been open to him that may not be by choice. Nevertheless a refreshing pint on a hot day, a hearty bowl of warm soup in winter, the smile of a pretty girl, swapping stories with good comrades around the camp fire; these are the things that keep him going. Or at least that's what he tries to convince himself.


Like many a Half-Orc Feras doesn't know who his parents are. Whatever maternal instinct that entices the mother to carry the baby to term usually stops short of actually raising the little monster. Still, Feras was luckier than most. At least his mother dropped him off on the steps of an Abbey, rather than off a cliff, which isn't an unheard of fate for his mongrel kind.

His luck held out insofar that this Abbey did not follow the ways of the Temple of the Sun, and were in fact more accepting of monsters and demi-humans. The Monks there raised the baby Feras, educating him when he grew old enough. He eventually learnt that they meant to induct him as a lay brother in their order when he reached his twelfth birthday. As much as he appreciated them taking him in and looking after him for as long as they did, the thought of surrendering himself to their boring, ascetic lifestyle horrified young Feras. He fled the Abbey the night before his birthday, with no idea of where he was going to go, but knew anywhere he ended up would be better than swearing his vows to God.

It didn't take long for him to fall in with the thieves guild. The guild were only too happy to accept a youngster with as quick hands (and even quicker wits) as Feras. It also helped that he was handy in a scrap, be that with rival gangs or the city guard. He spent years in the guild, learning the skills of the pickpocket, the footpad, the burglar, and eventually the enforcer. The guild got too big too quickly though, eventually earning themselves the attention, and the ire, of the Crown. Soldiers flooded the streets, clamping down on all Guild activities, and throwing any guild members they found in irons. Recognising his time in the city was up, Feras had a forger contact craft him up some fake documents that allowed him to sign on with the Kings Commandos, a specialist unit of foresters and rangers primarily made up of non-humans, who were heading out into the wilds on an Orc hunting expedition.

With the Commandos Feras travelled the length and breadth of the Kingdom, fighting a every sort of vicious beast, monster and barbarian to slink out of the shadows of untamed wilderness and sink its teeth into civilisation. It was a hard life, but Feras grew to enjoy the camaraderie, the excitement and the danger. He revealed himself to be an excellent tactician, and his superiors marked him for a leadership position.

Things changed when King Tyronde took the crown though. Under his new reign a mixed force of armed demi-humans couldn't be permitted, at least not one as autonomous as the Royal Commandos. They were ordered to surrender their weapons and stand down. However the Commados had heard of Tyrondes purges, his executions, and the sacrifices he allowed the Temple of the Sun to commit, and believed that was what was in store for them if they complied with his demands. They chose to disobey the King, and go on the run.

Long years of a deadly game of Cat and Mouse followed, the Commandos performing a guerrilla campaign against the Crown and the Temple, always persuade by Royalist forces. While they enjoyed some initial success the Commandos numbers were eventually whittled down, piece by piece, until only a few dozen remainder, led by Feras. Surrounded, starving, and outmatched, Feras was convinced by his men to treat with the Royal forces. Assured that his men would be spared if they surrendered, Feras called a cease to the hostilities. He was split from his men, sure that he would be executed as the sole remaining leadership figure of the Commandos.

To his own surprise he was instead thrown in chains and brought to the Maw. His mission now is to escape the hellish prison he finds himself in, and to track down his serving men and somehow escape the Kingdom that has betrayed him and all like him.


His childhood at the Abbey has left Feras with a quite comprehensive (for a peasant) education. He knows his history, literature, Royal genealogy, theology and arithmetic, more so than would be expected of any impoverished orphan. Of special note is the fact he can read, a skill he utilises often, but rarely reveals to those around him.
The Thieves Guild taught him stealth, pick pocketing, and lock breaking. Show him a rich merchant's house and he can break in, sneak around, and be out with the valuables in a matter of minutes and without the owner being any the wiser. They also taught him to fight, in a rough, brutish, brawl-like manner anyway. It wasn't pretty, but damn if it wasn't effective.
His time with the Commandos took all this skills and refined them unto excellence. Under their weapon masters he became a combatant that could give even the most experienced of knights pause for thought. With their rangers he learnt to move like a ghost, and to fall upon his enemies like a storm. And under their commanders he was taught all the intricacies of warfare; how to read the terrain he fought upon, how to inspire his men, how to strike fear into his enemies, when best to retreat from superior foes, or how to best punish an enemies weaknesses.


Feras is almost completely uninitiated in magic, and so holds a healthy fear of all magic users, and will always think twice before facing one.
His rage is also something of an issue. While not the frothing-at-the-mouth brute that most other Half-Orcs are, he still has a hotter than most temper, one that sees him pursue grudges long after he should, or make choices that could be generously described as ill-advised in pursuit of those grudges.
He's also something of an idealist. While he has seen the worst of what the Kingdom has to offer he is, somewhat subconsciously, always looking for the best in life and those around him. Not a useful trait in the Maw, perhaps even a fatal one.
While being a Half-Orc has its perks, he's still just a mortal. He can't rely on godlike strength or sorcerous powers to get him out of scrapes. Instead he has to use his skill at arms, his wits, his cunning, and a fair measure of luck to help him survive. All that on measure, shooting fireballs out your eyes would probably be more helpful.


Feras' equipment had long been removed by the time he had entered the Maw. As a commando he was never particularly fussy about what weapons he carried. Battle is a chaotic thing, so you're better being able to fight with the tool that suits the job rather than relying on one catch all weapon that might be good for some tasks and bad for others. He'll wield a mace if he has to fight Knights in plate armour, a dagger if he's sneaking about in the dark, a shield if he has to fight in the wall. The smell goes for armour.