Rock

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Everyone has their own relationship to war. Some wage it, either in foolhardy attempts at conquest, or in frighteningly efficient campaigns of death and territorial expansion. Others support it, either to line their own pockets or to placate those who they know would be less than charitable towards any dissent. Even more are forced into it, either via their sons and husbands being ripped from their arms or those very same sons and husbands having to make peace with dying in a ditch with nothing but the blow flies to listen to their own self composed eulogies. Yet few have to face those horrors head on, make decisions that they know will lead to the deaths of hundreds, thousands, all of which they've seen, personally, off to what they know is nothing more than a meat grinder. Few have what it takes to survive those horrors, and fewer still have what it takes to survive the nightmares that come after. And yet, when all the fighting is done, with the land now finally having time to settle the blood that's been left stained across it, there comes a final, even rarer class of folk.

Those, that treat war as a profession.

Rock. Born on a stone they said. And apparently Rock just rolled off the tongue better than boulder. Probably during a mission in some godforsaken part of the Western Rife. Still, maybe it was a blessing. There's worse things to be in his line of work than a Rock.

For as long as I could remember, all I'd known was the company. My first memory was of trudging through dirt and mud whilst escorting a merchant convoy making its way through the Ellezag plains. Certainly one hell of a way to learn your first steps but it set the tone for the rest of my life.

It's not easy, being in a Mercenary company. Contrary to the stories, there's no glamour, no fame, hell, you'd be hard pressed to find a woman even in most cases. The people who walk down this road are not the dark smouldering knights or the rough yet gentle brigands of you might find written in the more saucy books of chivalric prose. Every single man, woman, child, whatever you may find, is in some way a deeply broken individual who for one reason or another found that violence was all they were good for and had no other choice but to sell that violence to the highest bidder to get by.

And it's not like you get payed a lot either. Sure, the initial listing might look good but once you count equipment costs, travel fees, rations, and all sorts of other nasty little things that eat away at the budget the amount of returns you can make from an average stint is pretty small once its all divvied up between the group. Apparently it used to be better during the days of the war. I wouldn't doubt it, especially since it was Garth that was saying it.

Garth Martel, a true living legend amongst the Company, and a few others from what I've seen. He's been the leader since way before I was born. A real living fossil in this day and age and yet he's got more meat on his bones than some all of the nobles that've hired us. He's good at what he does, knows his way around the trade and knows how to haggle for what we're worth. And... he's the one who taught me everything I knew.

It was strange. I always felt something was... off... about him. Not in a bad way just, that he was different from the rest've us. He still had this look in eyes. That look you have when there's still something for you to hold onto. There were times when I'd catch him alone, rare times, where I could see him staring all the way off to those wrecks in the Western Rife and he'd whisper underneath his breath when no one else was looking "Surely, there's more out there." And that was one of the tamer bits of strangeness I've experienced from him.

Sometimes he left, told us to stay put or pick some easy jobs for ourselves while we were in the city, and he'd just come back with one of the fattest sacks've gold you could imagine and handed it out. We never asked any questions. Why would you? But still, always struck me as odd.

And then there were those times where we were camping out in the middle of nowhere during one of our brief moments of quiet and he'd just... look at me, and have this... look in his eyes. Like he was looking past me, and seeing someone else. And I'm not even gonna mention all the times he doted on me for no bleedin' reason. Honestly... he's a strange one. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

That is, until he up and left. This time for good.

Something was different. He normally would've said something, given us a heads up, anything, but no, this time he was gone. Left without a trace and even left the entirety of his share of the pot behind for the rest of us. Not even a goodbye note to go with it. Everyone else, they've moved on. I can't hold it against them. No matter how close we were at the end of the day this was just a job and they still have to work but... I can't do that. My eyes may not be the same as his but-

Until I find him, I've got a greater purpose in life than this.

Three basic skills that your character contributes to the group with a short description.

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They currently have a war horse named Ash that they've been with for quite some time. It's more than the bond between a man and their pet, to him Ash is practically family and even though he can't communicate with animals in general Ash is the sole exception to this and as such he has saved no expense in equipping Ash with the finest defensive barding he could find to the point where the horse is actually more well armored than he is.

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