His Majesty King Tyronde of Vortigern, alias the White Tiger, is the current ruler of the Westerlands. He is celebrated far and wide as a hero for having defeated his evil older brother, the Fallen King, who consorted with demons and preyed upon the populace. Under his reign, the people of the Westerlands have enjoyed peace and prosperity like never before throughout history. Together with the Temple of the Sun, he has ousted the old false gods of the heathens and unified the kingdom under one faith and tradition. Truly, there has never been a King like him.

If you believe the official story, that is.

Another, less tolerated, version claims that Tyronde conspired with the Heliarch of the Temple of the Sun to murder the old King and usurp his throne. In this version, the Westerlands used to be a diverse place of wonder where peoples of all creeds could live together in peace and harmony. The Tyrant and his Temple have demolished this society, forcing cohesion on the populace and banishing or outright slaughtering any and all who resist. Taxes are higher than ever, public executions are up, and children are sacrificed on massive pyres to the burning deity of the sun-worshipers.

The truth? Who knows. But you certainly know which version you subscribe to.

The Westerlands, or the Sunset Lands as they’re sometimes called, is a realm with a long and complicated history. The Kingdom, now unified under His Majesty King Tyronde of Vortigern, was once a sprawling mess of minor feuding territories where a multitude of races and cultures coexisted in an uneasy balance. Dragon riders kept watch from the snow capped peaks of the Boreal Mountains, elven druids danced in the moonlit groves of the Sylvan Forests, dwarves delved deep into the dark caverns of the Underworld, and giants roamed the rocky Highlands in search of fallen stars. A thousand gods and spirits, great and small, rivalled for worship in an unending cycle of conflict and peace. The chaos (or freedom, if you’re so inclined) ended with the death of the old King and the purging fires of the Unification Wars. Under the Sigil of the Sun, the King (by some referred to as the Tyrant) brought law and order (or death and destruction) to the Westerlands. They proclaimed One King, One God, and One Tradition, casting everything else aside. Today, remnants of the old ways linger in faraway corners of the world, hiding from the scorching light of the Holy Sun in the shade and the dark.

The land itself is still the same, with its rolling hills, high mountains, deep valleys, flowing rivers and calm lakes. The ruins of the old world linger, teeming with secrets and mysteries, and the old magic still permeates everything, no matter how hard the King and his Temple tries to smother it out. Civilization is spreading, however, one day at a time, threatening to overtake the wilderness as time goes by.

The Westerlands have always been a vast and diverse place, home to a plethora of more or less civilized races and peoples. The predominant race of the New Order under King Tyronde are the humans, who’s civilization previously ranked among the lesser ones of the land. They have expanded a lot in the decades since the White Tiger ascended the throne, and keep pushing the boundaries of other peoples territories.

Along with humans, the Westerlands are populated by elves, dwarves, orcs, and halflings, to name a few. These races are often divided into separate clans and peoples, derived from differances in culture and creed. Wood Elves, for instance, live in close connection with nature in the great forests of the world and see themselves as separate from the High Elves, who construct high towers and concern themselves with the skies and stars. Grey Dwarves, masters of stone and steel, have little in common with the Hill Dwarves practicing Runic Magic in the highlands. The Clan Orcs, who perfect the arts of martial prowess in secret fortified monasteries, want nothing to do with the Wild Orcs who pillage and burn along the coasts. The Hobbits, living in hidden close-knit communities in the wilds, can’t understand the nature of the Gnomes, solitary halflings who live as caretakers of mills, farmsteads and such in other peoples settlements.

There are other, less widespread races and peoples, too. The Naga of the Underworld waters, the Giants of the Highlands, the Fauns of the Forests, etc. Who knows what other beings are out there, among the forgotten places of the world?

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Name: Ciannait Duanei
Race: Dark Elf Vampire
Gender: Female
Age: Two centuries
Appearance:

This girl reminds you of a dangerous spider. She has almond-shaped eyes the color of blood. Her fine, straight, neck-length hair is the color of fine china, and is worn in a severe style. She is tall and has a lithe build. Her skin is a bluish-gray. She has thick eyebrows, pointed ears, and thin lips hidden by an iron half-mask covering the lower half of her face. It keeps her from feeding or talking above a whisper, and it locks in the back.

On her chest is an ancient slave brand, marking her as the property of House Donovani.

Cian wears a strangely repellant metal seal as a pendant on a necklace. A hard tug on the necklace will cause it to break away, she is forbidden from removing the seal herself.

Her wardrobe is a dark hooded woolen cloak, leather armor styled in some ancient pattern, and an adventurer's satchel, with pockets along its wide strap.

Personality:
Cian is lazy and will argue about everything, but is always concerned about her appearance immaculate and keeping things organized.

Talents:






Flaws:






Equipment:




Miscellaneous:

"Unhappy rumors have reached my ears, Aldhelm. They say a darkness hangs over the High Fells of Valandor. I pray that you have returned to us now to dispel such fearful tales."

Bowing down on his left knee as he entered the room, Aldhelm rose with greater difficulty, feeling his many years as he slowly stood up. He was no longer a young man. It had been fifty years since he had arrived in the Spired City. He had fought and defeated great evils. The faded scars and old injuries earned from such deeds were plain for all to see. He was a hero in Talcus, Aldhelm knew, for all the good it did him.

He had been richly rewarded for his services to the kingdom. He had risen to highest echelons of society. He had a title. He had lands. He dined with the nobility. He spoke with members of the royal family. He had more servants than he could count. He had a cadre of apprentices learning under his careful tutelage. And he slept in a luxurious bed. Such rich rewards had to be safeguarded by continued service, he knew, but it did not diminish the weariness he felt deep in his bones. Leaning heavily on his staff, Aldhelm collected his thoughts, consider how best to begin.

"I bring grim news, my lord Baron, there is a dark presence that dwells in the tomb of Adgyth Mara, a sorcerer who can summon the undead, a necromancer."

Loud gasps escaped from the court scattered in groups across the great hall and the Baron raised a calming hand, smiling good-naturedly as he beckoned for order to be restored.

"My old friend, surely you jest, perhaps this spellcaster is simply a maleficent conjurer, a charlatan dabbling in black magic in order to frighten the wretched people."

"There have been sightings of large groups of undead, moving across Thalore. To what end, we do not yet know. However, it is only a matter of time before this foul creature, this baleful necromancer, assembles an army of undead and moves to threaten the nearby settlements."

"What do you suggest?"

"We must act, your grace. We must secure the silver mines of Umeth. The King would be most displeased if the supply of silver was interrupted."

"Of course," the baron agreed, nodding sagely. "And of the necromancer?"

"Forgive me, my lord, but I have already taken the liberty of dispatching Inquisitor Nelriel and her company. I did not wish to trouble you with such minor details."

"Inquisitor Nelriel? Heartening news, indeed!" the baron proclaimed with a smile, to a smattering of cheers and clapping hands,"Why, I almost feel sorry for this pitiful necromancer."

"Just so," Aldhelm said, returning the board smile.

"What do they call you?"

"Cefrey."

"I see."

"Who sent you? Oh, don’t bother. I know you did not come here by your own accord."

Cefrey hesitated. There was subtle violence in the soft words of the stranger and Cefrey knew she did not have much time,"Aldhelm the Bright Handed"

"I know him."

"You cannot."

"Oh, why not? He knew my master. He was ever a friend of Taman Hakothi in those distant days," the robed figure said, taking a slow step forward, her cold blue eyes filling Cefrey with inescapable dread.

"Stay back! Don’t come any closer!" Cefrey stammered, pressing her back against the ice covered stone of the tomb, pointing the tip of her blade at the other speaker. "What do you want?"

A faint look of amusement crossed the pale elf’s face, "To talk, nothing more. I wish to know why old Aldhelm sends assassins to invade my home."

Cefrey tried to stay calm. She tried to think. She was cornered, surrounded by a host of undead, bristling with weapons and armor. They had lost Kalli to a trap as they entered the second level of the tomb. Brem had fallen to a hail of arrows not long after. The cleric accompanying them, Cesvel, had burned when he tried to rebuke the approaching undead. Nelriel had told her to run, screaming as an axe split her skull open. It had been a trap. Their spells had failed them. Their wards had been useless. The Necromancer had been ready. And Aldhelm had been wrong.

"Where is Vladislak? What have you done with him?" She meekly managed, her blade growing heavy in her hand and beginning to shake.

"Your friend is dead. Like the others that came with you."

"Why?"

"Do not ask foolish questions. You came here to kill me. Did you think that I would not defend myself? Your friend chose his fate. And now you may choose yours."

"Please…"

The crypt echoed with the loud clatter and clank of metal as the expressionless skeletons closed in on Cefrey, holding their weapons ready.

"No, stop that," the necromancer commanded,"Do not do that. Do not beg. You had a choice. You always have a choice."

Inquisitor Tessele clasped her hands together offering a quick prayer, before she lit the votive candle sitting on the battered wooden table in front of her. Brilliant light shaped by her divine magic began to spread across the room, driving away the darkness that surrounded her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the figure chained to the chair across from her. Dipping the tip of her quill in ink, she began to write in a careful hand.

"State your name, wizard, so that it may formally be recorded."

"You know my name."

Tessele smashed her first into the table, unwelcome flames of anger erupting in her bosom as her voice rose, "I will not ask you again, state your name, prisoner."

The reply came slower than the first, each syllable carefully delivered, "You know my name. You know me."

Unwelcome, painful silence followed, until unable to stand it any longer, Tessele spoke in a mournful tone,"You are Sariel, Sariel Amastacia."

"Indeed, I am Sariel Amastacia."

"So there you sit, chained, and left to languish in the darkness."

"I have no need for the light."

"They always say that."

"You waste my time."

"Your time is mine to waste."

"So you say," the shackled elf agreed.

"You subverted an agent of the crown. You had her murder a court wizard."

"I repaid Aldhelm for his poor manners and for his foolishness. The assassin…well, I gave her a choice. It would seem she found undeath preferable to death. Have you captured her?"

Tessele chose not to reply, pursing her lips in unbidden anger.

"Aha, now that is interesting. What will your superiors say? A wight on the loose in Talcus. I doubt they will be very pleased."

"Where is she?"

"In truth, I do not know. She is no longer bound to me. Her geas ended when she killed Aldhelm as I promised her when we struck our bargain."

"You released a wight in the city? To what end?"

The necromancer seemed to study Tessele with a pitying look before she spoke, "A wight is no lesser undead. She retained the memories of her life. Her personality was untouched. She possessed free will. I am not cruel. I have little desire to enslave sentient creatures."

"Such kindness," Tessele hissed, "And yet, you summoned an army of undead, razing the town of Camor to the ground. One hundred innocent souls, lost in one night."

"An accurate count, by my measure, but they were not slain by my hand alone."

"You deny it then?"

"It was not my intention to fight in the town. Unfortunately, your soldiers did not share my apprehensions about conducting a battle among the peasantry."

"Do you regret nothing?"

"What is there to regret, Tessele? I offered them a way out. I simply wanted to be left alone. The tombs were not theirs to claim. My home was not theirs to sully. And my work was not theirs to interrupt."

"You blame us for the slaughter?"

"What reason is there to lie?"

"You killed innocents. You killed the King’s men. You killed servants of the Holy Sun."

"Your clerics, your paladins, and your crusaders killed themselves with their own foolishness. I offer no apology for the deaths of the wicked."

"Wicked! They were good, kind souls devoted to the one true faith-"

"Oh, kill me now! But spare me this ridiculous story. You sent killers. You sent evil men. Their faith will not absolve them from their deeds. The righteous dead feast on their souls this day! I promise you that. I have but to listen and I can hear the screams of your soldiers. And I can hear the laughter of their countless victims rising louder still."

"You are the monster they said you were. I had vainly hoped that they might be wrong."

"There was no mistake."

Tessele’s voice wavered, her hands balling into tight fists, "I thought you lost, Sariel. I thought you were dead. After the battle of Eliorin. I looked for you. I looked for you for weeks. I searched for your body. And I found nothing."

"I was never lost," the wizard interrupted, seemingly unmoved.

"Where did you go?"

"To the East, beyond the narrow sea. I sought out the masters of magic, the great wizards of the forgotten ages. The ancient undead hidden from your prying eyes and shielded from your violence."

"You found them then, the hateful liches still remaining?"

"They are not so hateful, at least when you are polite."

"We heard stories about a great disaster befalling the lands of Thalore. It was said that the people had fallen into the hands of a Necromancer."

"It was peaceful, before you came."

"You consort with the undead. You damn you very soul, Sariel, there is no peace in that!"

The wizard leaned forward, placing a skeletal hand over Tessele’s before the inquisitor had time to pull back.

"Tessele, there is only fear in your words. You do not see. You do not listen. You do not understand. You are blinded by the light. You are deafened by the thunder of your new faith."

"You are halfway in the grave and you speak like that!" Tessele shouted, almost jumping back as she withdrew her hand, sending the candle clattering to the floor. She pointed at the wizard's skeletal arm,"Look at yourself, Sariel! You are dying, you are turning into a monster."

"If I have changed, then it is only for the better."

"You have traded your flesh. You have bartered away your soul. And for what? Unholy magic?"

"This?" the necromancer scoffed, raising her skeletal arm. "That arm was a small price to pay for knowledge."

Gangraena

Undead Proto-Human

Female

Unknown, even to her.


Standing at around one hundred and eighty four centimeters and weighing ninety kilograms (two hundred and four kilograms while armored) this terrifying undead warrior commands an imposing presence on the battlefield. While fighting foes might give wonder as to how this threat manages to even move under the layers upon layers of armor that's been bolted onto the suit over time, let alone so deftly, but even the wildest speculations fail to capture just what exactly lurks in the dark recesses of this metal behemoth.

For a corpse that has been lost in the great oceans for eras upon eras she looks relatively okay, albeit still wholly unearthly as something returned from a watery grave might. Her flesh remains largely unscoured by the tides and while patches here and there have been nicked and pierced the only major sign of deterioration is the hollow sockets that remain where once eyes rested. Any who stare into them would find only not even the back of her skull to gaze upon, just an infinite abyss with the only feature standing out from it being a distant yellow light, one for each socket, like a gleaming star far up into the ever vast night sky.

Apart from that eyes her skin is blue from asphyxiation and her hair remains a disheveled kelp green color, a characteristic of her ancient and long forgotten heritage. Her droning voice seems to echo from her, originating from her chest but also not. Her build is broad, lean but muscular as she was a warrior once in life, just as she continues to be in death. She is rarely seen outside her armor, though for the time being her recent defeat and subjugation at the hands of the warden have left her equipment in their mercy.



Terrifying, brutal, relentless. These are words all who've fought her would use to describe her save her last foe.

Actually talking to her however and you'd realize that this large imposing zombie is actually quite pleasantly chipper, albeit slow of speech and a fair bit confused to the world as a whole. Though she has no need to eat nor drink nor even sleep she enjoys the simple things in life. A glorious sunrise, a calm meadow, the smattering of light through a tree's canopy or even a merry tune, Gangraena doesn't need much and is rather happy with what she gets. She is no stranger to violence and speaks it's language well but she rarely means ill of it. It's simply something that she does, both a mere fact of life and the mercenary business where she plies her trade readily and without much question.

Having spent as much time lost in the deepest recesses of the ocean floor for as long as she has she's developed a great amount of patience, years passing not unlike the days themselves. She's not one for long grudges nor great bouts of anger. She is also not overly critical of others for their vices, beliefs or characteristics. The whole world is strange to her but she welcomes it's many wonders as well as any break from monotony or solitude.

One oddity about her is that she herself isn't terribly clear on who she is herself. She has memories of her past but so much time has past their details have grown fuzzy, inaccurate even. As for what she even is she hasn't much the faintest clue either.



Gangraena was born long ago, in a civilization that predates many kingdoms of man. In an era of things lost to the ages, where humanity flourished before a great fall cast it all under the rug of history, a time once mere myth now simply forgotten, there was a family of great warriors who fought on behalf of the glory of their gods. This family bore three brothers and six daughters, one of which was named Gangraena. She was the strongest of them all, able to move most naturally in heavier armor. Her wits however were perhaps as sharp as her mace. She never had an affinity for matters of great complexity, always a creature of simplicity. Despite her shortcomings she was still deemed fit to fight the unnatural in the names of their gods.

Of course, she would never see her first crusade as the waves claimed her before any blade, tooth or claw could. When a terrible storm struck her sea vessel the chains around an anchor bound her leg and drug her overboard once it's restraints had snapped. Like a metal pebble in a great big pond she sank in her heavy plated suit of armor, now a watery coffin as she swiftly drowned. This was the end of Gangraena.

_
When her body reached the ocean floor however something else happened upon her corpse, one of a few that were brought down there and not by chance. These drowned were selected and drawn to an ancient altar lost to the tides from times ancient even back in these times lost to time. Upon this altar an ancient being that remained trapped below the great waters sewed into these vessels dark spirits which animated them. These dark spirits would take these new shells of theirs and return to the surface and sew the ancient being's influence about the world once more, corrupting and weakening it until the time was right for it to escape it's oceanic prison and consume the world just as it tried to do once before.

The dark spirits kept the memories of the drowned as a guide to help them navigate the surface. Many of them ventured forth, each one meeting any number of different fates, none truly successful. Gangraena's host however did not find it's way back to the surface. Due to being bound to both her body, her armor and her anchor as it could not discern them apart from one another the dark spirit could not simply float up from the depths like the others. This dark spirit was forced to wander, anchored to the ocean floor as it trudged through valleys deeper than any known to the surface world, over mountains taller than any that could be found above. Due to inheriting the drowned's poor sense of direction it remained lost for countless centuries, walking to and fro across the vast ocean landscape, often times finding itself going in circles.

This continued for so long that the spirit's own mind started to warp. Delirious from the ceaseless tedium of wandering without ever finding land this dark spirit started finding itself mixing it's own memories up with that of the host it had taken. What once was a map slowly grew to become it's identity as it eventually lost sight of it's very purpose. It no longer remembered the very purpose it was given to this host for, nor of the being that put it inside this shell in the first place. All that it knew for real mingled with the life that Gangraena had known until a muddy sheet of indistinct memories both native and inherited blurred into one single past. All that it cared for now was to find the surface. It couldn't remember why it wanted to but it seemed like the right thing to do.

_
Eventually the dark spirit who believed itself to be the very shell it inhabited found it's way to dry land. What she found delighted her as she wandered the beaches until shortly happening upon a humble fishing village. The villagers were frightened but reluctant to flee and abandon all their belongings. Instead they complied to her wishes and relieved to find that she was relatively peaceful, speaking in an unknown language with an eerie voice but not aggressive. It was here that she started learning the land's language, listening to the village people speak and figuring out their words while she helped chop and carry firewood for them during her stay.

Eventually a mercenary company by the name of The Grey Auxilliary docked at their little village for supplies and happened upon Gangraena. Now able to carry a rudimentary conversation she spoke with the captain of these mercenaries, impressing them with her unnatural might. Seeing if this strange being was amicable they offered her employment and she accepted. To them this might of been the breakthrough they needed to help stand out from other upcoming mercenary companies and earn themselves a reputation. To her this was just another chance to see and experience new things while also getting the chance to fight which was fun too.

A decade of fighting later and this company had slowly but surely dwindled until only their captain and Gangranea remained. Their times together were glorious and many a battle was won but unlike Gangraena the men and women of this company were mortal. Be it death in combat, injury or longing to start a family the various members of their crew each fell way whilst Gangraena remained, an unchanging feature which had cemented herself in this company's renown. Their leader, old man Grey Hound was growing too old and injured to fight himself too. Seeing as Gangraena had kept with them through the greatest times of their career he passed leadership of the company onto her before he retired from the life of a mercenary to enjoy his hard earned cash.

Gangraena was now the only remaining member of The Grey Auxiliary. She never made an effort to recruit more members, largely as the very thought never entered her head. Instead she simply kept taking jobs and killing on behalf of those who'd give her money, stripping away armor from those she slays and crudely bolting them onto her platemail which is how she eventually became a metal behemoth of some fame amongst warriors around. It seemed she wasn't weakening either, her strength no longer comparable to mortal men and women of mundane make.

However with fame comes attention and her exploits eventually drew the ire of the king himself. Whatever his reasons he set up a trap, a false job which she took. Upon arrival she was swarmed with men. Their weapons could not best her great armor and their own protections offered no safety from the great anchor she swung with the same grace and precision one would swing a sword. Of course there was something present that she had not encountered yet: Magic. Divine casters beseeched their god and smote her with their holy magic. Not able to guard against it she eventually collapsed, men rushing her prone form and lashing her down with ropes and chains. While she had not perished again from their divine assault as she had grown quite powerful, enough even to withstand more than most undead could ever hope to, she was not able to continue the fight in her state. Fighting more would of simply resulted in her dying again and that didn't sound fun.

Thus, she resides now in the oubliette of great threats simply known as The Maw. Amongst the most dangerous foes the king's laid claim to for purposes known only to himself and select others she finally fits in, though there's still not a lot of things truly like her.

At least, none where anyone can find them.



Starting with her skills she is a trained warrior, educated from youth in warfare and battle. Having spent a decade putting that knowledge to use has helped in giving her the practical experience she needed to become an experienced warrior, honing her skills against many a foe. Her other skills and knowledges largely compliment her trade, having a basic knowledge of metal and leather working so that she may upkeep her weapon and armor.

As for her abilities her most noticeable features are that of undeath. Being undead she has no need for food, water or even sleep. She can see in the dark no less than she can in the day and she is not beholden to fatigue. Without pain she cannot feel discomfort from heat or cold, only suffering degradation to her material form from extremes of either temperature. All that can stand to put an end to her once and for all would be destruction of her material form or magic of sufficient potency, her organs only remaining because nothing has given them cause to leave her body.

Her true power however comes from the more sinister function of her dark spirit: The ability to devour the souls of those slain by her. The spirit passively consumes the souls of her victims, unaware that it's even doing so. With each soul devoured Gangraena slowly gains in might, little by little. This is what has given Gangraena the strength of ten grown men and also part of how Gangraena wears her armor and wields her anchor so easily. The dark spirit partially haunts the armor and anchor so it lets Gangraena move them around almost like they were her own limbs. In time as the spirit gains strength she may be able to eventually even move her armor and weapon on their own with her very mind, albeit slowly to start. What else might rise from her spiritual growth remains unknown to many, herself included.

Aside from all that Gangraena also possesses an immunity to the damaging influences of the ocean due to an old pact between it and the entity her dark spirit was manifested from. She will suffer neither deterioration from the salty waters nor be crushed by the weight of the depths and many of the predators which lurk deep in the dark waters below will simply ignore Gangraena unless she threatens their safety.



As an undead creature her greatest flaw is that she does not heal naturally. Any harm dealt unto her physical vessel must be repaired manually using parts from another body to fill in for what is missing. These parts may inherit her will but will not carry her strength until they've remained with her for some time, the longer the better. Much the same applies to her armor and weapon, both needing upkeep when damaged as they are a part of her. Being separated from her armor reduced her overall might by a third and once again should she be separated from her anchor, reducing her down to a single third of her original might.

Being an undead creature magic that affects the undead will affect her similarly, weakened by her overall might but all the same a hurdle unique to undead like her. As for her darkvision while she is able to see in the dark no less than she can in the day she cannot see colors, her entire worldview stuck perpetually in monochrome. There are also certain limitations imposed by her armor's design such as a limited field of view and range of motion allowed for her arms. Practice has allowed her to better work around these but only to an extent.

As a person her biggest weakness is that she is a simple creature at heart. She doesn't plan far or deep, has no talent for complex ideas and can become easily confused in this world now well removed from the one she faintly remembers. If someone needs a person with quick wits and an even quicker tongue to solve a predicament then she'd be the last candidate to ask.

Worst of all is that she came with obligations. She may have forgotten them but something out there still remembers and is still waiting... Watching.



The only equipment kept by Gangraena are those she perished with: Her plated armor and her anchor. Both are crafted initially with fine steel, iron and other such terrestrial metals being slapped on to patch them until both armor and weapon now resemble a patchwork of different fixes. Despite this they are also partially haunted by her dark spirit, each a part of her no less than her arms or legs. You can take the armor off Gangraena but you cannot take Gangraena off the armor, at least, not without deep arcane know-how.



Gangraena is left-handed.

Sir Brandon of Bainbridge, formerly Knight Captain of the Order of Saint Helios, Sworn Sword to Royal House of Vortigern, Champion of the Crown, Third Blade of the Kingdom, Knight Paragon of the Virtues of Duty and Vigilance. Now known as Sir Brandon the Broken Blade, Traitor and Apostate to the Crown and the Church.

Human

Male

Forty Four

Sir Brandon is a tall man, standing easily over six feet in height. His build is muscular but lean, Brandon's physical prowess always relying more upon his speed than his brawn. His skin is tanned from long hours riding under the sun and time spent pursuing outdoor activities. A lifetime of combat training and actual warfare has left him with a number of faded silvery scars that mostly cross his upper limbs and face.

Brandon's face would generally be considered handsome, if a little bit stern and brooding. It's are long, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. A pair of grey eyes stare out from under a dark furrowed brow. Similarly dark hair frames it, shot through with a scattering of grey, and a short beard hides his chiselled jaw.

Captivity has changed him somewhat however, he is thinner than he was before, paler, more dishevelled. Fresh scars and old bruises mark his face and body, the skin at his wrists are raw and bloody from long periods spent wearing irons. Where before his dark hair was merely lightly flecked with grey, it is now well and truly streaked with it, and almost completely silver at the temples. But more than just those external changes, something more fundamental has changed inside of Brandon. There's a look in his eyes what wasn't there before, an emptiness, a void of despair and self loathing even deeper than the prison they have cast him into.

Duty and diligence are the two ideals to which Brandon has organised his life. First to his father and family, later to his lord and liege, and finally unto the Crown itself. Always, he has put the desires and ambitions of others before his own. Always he has done what others have asked of him to the best of his abilities. Brandon was a man made to serve, much more comfortable following orders than being the person giving them out.

He is a man of few words. When he does talk, he speaks slowly in a careful and deliberate manner. His speech is far from coarse, but there is a degree of plainness to it. In fact there's a degree of plainness about Brandon in general. He dislikes ostentatious dress or drawing undue attention to himself. Despite his considerable martial prowess he was never considered much of tourney knight, only ever entering the lists at the command of his superiors.

A stern knight of few words could easily come over as a cold or unfeeling individual. But where he could Sir Brandon would always try to temper what he had to do with other ideals a knight was supposed to uphold. He tried to offer mercy where he could, he tried to be chivalric, defend the poor and the weak from the strong and the wicked. From behind his stony mask he tried to uphold both, his duty and his conscience.

Then it all went up in flames.

Brandon is a lost man. A broken blade. A mess of despair and self-loathing. He has committed crimes against his King and Country and even worse crimes against his own conscience. Sometimes he wishes he did not feel empathy, so he could have done what they asked of him without it destroying him. Other times he wishes he had plunged his sword into Tyronde's heart the first time he had laid eyes on him. Mostly he wishes that he was dead.



Third Blade of the Kingdom: At one point in time Sir Brandon was considered one of the greatest knights of the Westerlands. Particularly skilled with a blade, there few other than the most elite of swordsmen could stand up to him in single combat.

Knight Paragon: Sir Brandon was once a member of the nobility, and served in the Royal Court for many years. He understands court politics, heraldry, the history of the great houses of the Westerlands, and how to conduct oneself amongst the aristocracy.

Knight Captain: Sir Brandon was once a military commander as well as a champion. He knows how to command and discipline men, how to plan a campaign, how to employ military strategy. Some of his former subordinates might even still have a degree of loyalty to their old commander...

Broken Blade: Sir Brandon is not the disciplined and dutiful knight he once was. He is broken man, his convictions shaken, his faith shattered. He despises himself for what he has done both for and against the Crown. Sometimes he thinks it would have been better if he had let himself fall in battle than endure the despair he lives with every day.

Traitor and Apostate: When he killed an Inquisitor of the Sun Temple and forsook his vows to the King, Sir Brandon became more loathsome in the eyes of many than those monsters and heretics the Inquisition dealt with. After all, many were born evil or did not know any better than to believe in evil demons and spirits, but Brandon was raised good true in the Faith and yet still chose heresy and treachery.

The Pyre of Children: He still sees it his dreams. Still hears the screams. He cannot face it again, not in the waking world. Brandon loathes fire, and there is nothing in this world than could compel him to raise his blade against an innocent child again. He would rather die.

Though he mostly discarded his knightly regalia during his attempted flight to exile. Sir Brandon retains a serviceable set of steel chainmail, along with a breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, greaves, and an open faced helmet. His shield is oak banded with iron, and his sword, although exceptional fine, is unenchanted and largely unadorned. A dark hooded cloak helped to hide his identity before he was finally apprehended.