[CHAR] Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

[AmongHeroes]

Sir Delwin Pryde

[x]-Age: 27

[x]-Appearance: Sir Delwin stands just over 6’ in height, with broad shoulders and a lithe, defined frame. His eyes are a light brown.

[x]-Gender: Male

[x]-Background: Sir Delwin Pryde was born as the first son of a Welsh fisherman under the rule of Uthyr Pendragon. Growing up, Delwin had every intention of carrying on his father’s trade, and was concerned little with the grander machinations within Britannia. At the age seventeen, this outlook suddenly changed for Delwin, as his father was brutally murdered at the hands of Saxon raiders.

After moving his mother and two sisters inland, and into the home of his mother’s family, Delwin departed to rally beneath the banner of King Arthur, and repulse the Saxons. With no previous martial skills, Delwin had to rely upon his wit, shrewdness, and bearing to maintain him upon the battlefield. Taken into Arthur’s army as a spearman, Delwin was obligated to learn his craft quickly, as his first battle took place less than a fortnight after leaving his family.

It was at the Battle of Celidon Wood that Delwin would meet his fate, and truly change his life forever. In the midst of the roiling onslaught of Saxon infantry, Delwin came to the aid of a knight who had been thrown from his horse. The knight had been knocked unconscious by the fall, and lay helpless. Taking up the knight’s sword, Delwin managed to defend him until his consciousness returned.

Following the battle, Delwin was sought out by the knight whom he had saved. The knight was Sir Lamorak, a skilled warrior, and member of the Knights of the Round Table. On Lamorak’s request, King Arthur knighted Delwin that very same day, and commended him for his bravery and loyalty in the service of the crown. From that day forward, Sir Delwin was constantly at the side of Sir Lamorak, soaking up every bit of knowledge and skill that the grizzled veteran could pass on to him.

Years passed, and Sir Delwin became a rigorous pupil in the ways of chivalry and knightly combat. Though not as skilled in swordsmanship as some of his noble peers, Sir Delwin commands a high degree of respect in the eyes of his enemies, and his adaptability make him a worthy adversary. He was granted a small plot of land along the River Usk, and is tasked with aiding in the patrol and defense of the northern reaches of the realm.

[x]-Traits of Avalon:
∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Lion’s Roar: You exude an air of command, confidence, skill, and righteous purpose. Your enemies are hesitant to engage you upon the battlefield, and they grow anxious at the mere mention of your name.

[AmongHeroes]

GM Characters

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Sir Lancelot of the Lake

AGE | 32

[RisenDead]

Withdrawn

[Rockette]

ℒ ᴀ ᴅ ʏ ℐ ᴍ ᴇ ʟ ᴅ ᴀ. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ᴏ ғ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ K ɴ ᴜ ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ

^{"The face of she whose touch he yearned; Until whose kisses he had earned."}

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^{I M E L D A C L O U S E A U - V E R H A V E R T}
Twenty-six.♦ Female. ♦ Knueven Vallore.

_{[ ♔ ] A P P E A R A N C E}

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Sensuous debuts and appellations are befitting to Imelda's impression, validated with nontraditional degrees of beauty that sire dark hair, skin and eyes, fairness in mute shades that lightens her complexion to an olive hue that feathers in swarthy tones. Such is the signification of the compounding lines of Couseau and Verhavert, the sire and dame of her blood unified by marriage and wealth and genetic prosperity; infamy is highly recorded in their union, a previous scandal that bred estrangement within their valour, but has effected little else. With hair the colour of molten soils, reminiscent of rich sweets and near like sleekness and her eyes just as dark and shadowed, but bedecked with emerald and peridot slivers that interchange through shadow and sunlight. The only blemish, as it were, to the conception of perfection that seats upon her breast and soul.

_{[ ♔ ] B A C K G R O U N D}

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The lands of Couseau and Verhavert lie into the East, each inspire a crest of climbing foxes and descending ravens, plunging down low, the emblazoned heraldry of scavengers, tricksters, of the misunderstood fauna that amass the Eastern territories. The deeds sought by each of the families has long cleansed the misconstrued conception of ill-favoured pests, bringing rituals of valour, honour and swift royalty. The endeavors of each have been christened harsh, sometimes volatile, and ever conflicted with ambition with their continuous climbs to the upper echelons of court favour. The lords and ladies of these lands have been emblazoned with steelish fortitude behind their stone walls and thickets of Eastern forests, the rumours circulating, the defaming tales in-sighting to the perfection and rigidity that sires and breeds knights of every splendor.

Once, they were enemies, foxes and ravens pillaging one another, battles were carried in swift executions and silent malice, each favoured seedier methods, manipulation, poisons that were planted on tongue and touch rather than shield and blade. Whilst the neighboring lands warred or prospered, the Eastern territories continued to pit and plunge their hatred, old family blood boiled and even when their fathers vanquished and were entombed, the generations continued to rage and cry. It was, thus, by the union of a scandalous affair that saw to the combining riches and power, shaming their valour and elderkin, but fostering a future that would see the Couseau and Verhavert with righteous fame and duty.

These histories led into the unification of many Lords and Ladies, the surrounding duchy prospering under the commingling bloodlines that brought with it mild peace, for shadows still bred far and wide into the houses, hidden behind each crest. When the fox and raven came together in the sigil of a winged creature bedecked in thorns, flora of the Eastern soils, and rightfully crowned, the first generations since the union came to with celebration.

Old stories still linger within the halls of both Couseau and Verhavert, sometimes romanticized and embellished for the various squires sanctioned there, and many younger knights that pain and struggle under the tutelage of their masters. Imelda was one among many who aspired to the histories, the olden traditions in battle conduct, the secret murmurs of their forgiven hatred to one another, and the immediate affections of her own parents despite their infliction. And whilst she admired these tales, she also learned to hate them, for the birth rite and burden of such was eternally taxing, it brought with it long nights and even longer days, it brought with it expectations and predetermined fate and rule that was decided since her conception. The second child lost in the shadows of the former - who later become a Knight of The Round Table - and instructed to inspire the rest after her, Imelda could only cling to a smidgen of hope that she would prove well enough.

Her time would come during the Saxon invasion, paired with her bow and kin, the Couseau and Verhavert militia spread aloft into the warring lands, meeting the opposition and unified under the banner of the King. Imelda was hereby sworn into a particular contingent of knights, these that favoured stealth and found their niche in archery rather than swords, the Knueven Vallore, where she seemed to prosper, well even after their dispersion under the instructions of their Lords. For the living concept of a potential threat, even with the invasion thwarted and passed, could not be tolerated; they had to be careful, to not sire suspicion of treason and ill intent to the King. With her eldest kin a Knight under Arthur's reign, the burden of impression, power and tale came to increase, the dregs of such laden onto Imelda wherein she was transported to court as an envoy to the differentiating strengths to the Eastern territories, and to curry favour among the intrigue of political guise.

_{[ ♔ ] T R A I T S O F A V A L O N}

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_{∞-The Fox’s Feet. You possess the ability to move silently, deftly, and with confidence. Your skill for stealth is far above that of an average knight, and your balance is masterful.
∞-The Falcon’s Talon. You are a master of the bow. The accuracy of your arrows is deadly and true, whether they be loosed from on foot, or from horseback.}

[Clumsywordsmith]

-Name: Arian Hydd

-Age: 31

-Appearance: Not of an especially great height, but broad shouldered and well-built nonetheless. He carries himself with a certain measure of grace and quiet confidence. Dark hair tied back, clothing plain and bearing little in the way of ornementation – save for a silver medallion he seems to always wear about his neck, upon which is engraved the spiraling shape of an antlered stag in constant motion. His lips seemed creased into a perpetual frown, and any smile he might make tends to end up masked behind a thick beard. Still, he wouldn't generally be termed unhandsome – if perhaps appearing more than a little dour at the outset.

-Gender: Male

Background:

Generally a rather taciturn individual, Arian is the sort who speaks only sparingly of his past – though perhaps a bit of drink and the right questions would loosen his tongue a little. A Welsh warrior hailing from one of the countless little towns buried amidst the sprawling moors and rolling mountains, he learned the art of his craft from the days of his early youth, a childhood spent battling the Saxons in countless skirmishes and engagements. His past has seen all those he once knew and loved passed on to eternity, and whatever the future might hold in store would appear just as bleak. Still, he seems to have found some solace in taking up service with Arthur's knights in Camelot: the cessation of war, one might find, does not always leave a warrior's heart at peace.

-Intro:

Plumes of breath in frozen air; soft crunch of hooves in the grass – and the boy crouches, grey eyes wide as he studies the creature before him. White on white – a monstrous stag of silver-white, sleek coat all but shimmering in the faltering twilight. The boy exhales, rises to his feet even as he stretches a cautious hand forward. Creeping, stretching. One foot, then the next. The stag eyes him cooly now, head tosses in uncertain gesture: wicked tines of branching antlers slice through the air, ears flap and twitch. But the boy presses on. Another step, and then another, until finally they stand a mere pace apart – the boy and the stag – and he reaches his hand forward, lays a finger against the soft velvet of the twitching nose...

(I draw my hands from the stream, splash the cool water against my face. Scrub at the blood and grime. Watch the red blossom take life, go swirling away downstream. I grit my teeth, clench my fists and feel the stubborn pain. Stagger to my feet and eye the clearing; hazy sheen of a midsummer's afternoon, vivid green of the forest's growth right up to the water's edge, and a quiet woodland stream murmuring quietly to itself amidst the droning hum of insects behind. I blink. The -heat-! And the bodies. Strewn here and there. Haphazard – the finality of death bringing a a strange kind of calm to their features. Soon the flies will come, buzzing thick – but... with an exhausted grunt I find myself, too, collapsing against the trunk of a nearby willow, stretching my legs toward the water and tilting my head skyward... thoughts wandering far, far away....

To a time of blood and fire – and I am running, now. Sprinting across the barren moor. That odd feeling of calm before the storm; that uncertain certainty of finding myself observing my own actions rather than participating. Like watching through a dream, from a distance. And then the first of the enemy appear over the crest of the further hill. A great cry goes up. They scream! I am screaming too, I find – screaming even as I tear past their further edge, the dust and heat driving me to a frenzy as we crash against the unprotected flank. Sword and axe alike are moving with a deadly grace – and yet it is not me, I think. No. I am quiet. Serene. The great white stag grazing in the midst of a forested meadow. Flash of light – screams of the dying – and then--

And then I come to myself again. Thoughts still disturbed – like searching for a lost trinket through the depths of a murky pool. Blurry confines of an old and ragged hut; no one there – just me – and the fire's last embers have fallen all to ash and smoke. I claw hands through my eyes, try to rub the smarting blur from my vision. The air... too thick to breath. I feel myself beginning to suffocate.

“A future, you say? Look then to the past!” The words come unbidden to me now, and with a gasp I spring to my feet, throw aside the hide covering to the hut's entrance and step outside. My horse is there, browsing quietly amidst the wildflowers. My axe and sword lean against the wooden wall. I could not say how long I had been asleep. I do not think it mattered. I know only that I am alive, and staggering to my knees I retch, spew some bile to the grass even as I clutch the back of my head; the pain of an iron spike driving into the back of my skull.

But I am alive. I gather my weapons, haul myself into the saddle and steer a course away from the hut. Away from the madness. There is a place, I have been told – a place where a luckless man of my gifts and talents might find himself of use. A place called Camelot. A man at his wit's end will try most anything, or so they say.)

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.

[Bright_Ops]

Sindri Myr

-Name: Sindri Myr

-Age: 21

-Appearance:


-Gender: Male

-Background:
Sindri Myr was born the fourth son of the famed knight Sir Bastian; Unfortunately his mother was one of his father's servants rather then his wife and thus he was legally a bastard and unable to take on his fathers name or hold any claim to his holdings. Despite the fact that his father refused to legally recognize him as his child Sir Bastian permitted both Sindri and his mother to remain on his lands, allowing Sindri to begin training as a retainer knight to serve under himself and after he had passed his eldest brother.

The training was harsh, made even harsher by his status as a bastard child, but he persevered despite the struggle. While he wasn't the strongest or most finesse of fighters Sindri's trainers noticed that he seemed to have a gift for spotting openings, weaknesses and environmental advantages alongside the natural speed to take advantage of them, often to devastating effect.

Then the Saxons invaded. Sir Bastian and his three children swore their fealty to King Arthur and rode off to war, Sindri following them just like any other servant or retainer would have. Sindri was the only one who returned alive when the war was over, his speed and awareness of the battlefield around him having given him the insight to know where he needed to be for maximum effect and survival, fighting alongside several of the knights who would later go on to sit on the Round Table at one battle or another.

With no other surviving male claimants to Sir Bastian's holdings, Sindri pushed his own claim. Despite his status as a bastard he was able to successfully push his claim and take over his father's estate, greatly helped by the influence of several knights of the Round Table that he had fought beside during the war.

With the departure of the King and his most trusted knights, Sir Myr has come forward to aid the regent Sir Lancelot in maintaining the kingdom.

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.

[Gowi]

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S i r I G N A T I U S ♔

♔

^{"Rome has betrayed itself. It knew the truth and chose violence, it knew humaneness and it chose tyranny."}

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^{I G N A T I U S D O N T U S}
34 ♦ Male ♦ Former Sagittarii

_{[ ♔ ] A P P E A R A N C E}

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With deep ancestry descending from Capua, Italy— Ignatius is a Roman in culture and ethnicity. Whilst Ignatius’ family claims that the Dontus line is entirely composed of pureblood Romans, the likelihood of that being based in truth is unlikely due to the presence of various ethnicities and nationalities in Capua for many years. Whilst Ignatius is most certainly distinctly Roman he probably has traces of Goth, German, and Greek. More individually, Ignatius is a tall man that appears Roman in origin with mid-length dark brown-to-black hair and olive complexion. He is well built due to his legionnaire training and conditioning, and contains a fierce and unflinching yet wounded look to him.

_{[ ♔ ] B A C K G R O U N D}

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Ignatius Dontus was born in the Imperium Romanum thirty-four years ago in the city of Constantinople to a family of Roman lineage that had represented central Roman politicians in Capua for several generations until they were forced to vacate Italy by the Ostrogoths. The Dontus family were Patricians and as such had many expectations that were pressed upon to each individual members including political affiliations, social ideologies, and strict teachings that had leant the dynasty a particular reputation that was inherently negative— especially towards the Peregrinus classes of foreigners. As such the first ideals that Ignatius came to know were fashioned out of hatred, bigotry, nationalist agendas, and classist elitism. Such values would not be corrected for many years to come, as Ignatius often reflects upon.

Following one of the traditions of his house, Ignatius looked to serve the imperium in a different manner than his father had and instead decided to follow his father’s brother, Celsus, who had created his own legacy within the imperium’s military hierarchy as a Legatus. Ignatius’ inspiration was not disregarded by his father, though the disappointment that he’d not want to follow in his footsteps was prevalent and a series of passive-aggressive letters sent to Ignatius during his early career in the legion. Upon the time of the completion of his training and preparation for his first assignment there were no large scale wars going on within the imperium, though following the Anastasian War’s conclusion some years earlier there wasn’t exactly peace or stability either— it was a world on the edge and there were plenty of opportunities for battle.

Those opportunities turned into realities. Ignatius’ first assignments were alongside the fringe borders north of Constantinople in a fortress that was designated as a outlook outpost to keep an eye on activities of nomadic heretics such as the slavs, avars, and bulghars. The majority of Ignatius’ early career was dealing with these tribes and several conflicts that saw him gaining experience against minor threats to the imperium. Days turned to years— but then something far more pertinent became a reality. Called into the tent of his commander, he was brought into a discussion about transferring him towards more of a position worthy of his talents. Noting his talent with tactics, archery, and his connection to the Dontus dynasty he gave a missive that sent Ignatius back to the capital to serve a more central legion. His new commander was an aspiring commander with ambitions and a staunch connection to the emperor himself— his name was Belisarius Falvius.

Conflicts between the imperium and the Persians of the Sassanid Empire had finally began to get heated once again within the earliest years of Ignatius’ service under Belisarius and Ignatius alongside his commander and others gathered a reputation following the battles of Dara & Callinicum. Ignatius’ experiences alongside Belisarius made him reconsider his thoughts on foreigners serving so highly in the empire and made him speculate if Theodoric was simply just the exception and not the rule. However, such favorability between him and his commander would change two years later when they were assigned to handle the Nika Riots in Constantinople. The horrors of war and the reality of the men he was fighting with would shock Ignatius to his core when they committed a massacre against the rioters at the Hippodrome. The blood of 30,000 people was now on all of their hands.

Once Ignatius began to backtrack his investigation’s reports— he saw ways they could’ve met diplomatic ends with the rioters, but he knew that resorting to quasi-genocide had been the only answer that the Emperor had given to Belisarius and the other commanders. Feeling unease with the empire, Ignatius began investigating the affairs that he could using his contacts from his family’s relations in Constantinople. As Ignatius went further down the rabbit hole, things only became exponentially more complicated as the actual politics and realities of the imperium became revealed— he learned more about the rioters that he had more or less executed in a dishonorable and brutal manner, but that the darkness of Constantinople was scarier than whatever had been ingrained into his head as a child. He thought to confront Belisarius— who laughed at his moralizing of people against the imperium as well as nearly killing Ignatius after painting him a traitor.

When Ignatius awoke he was disowned by his family, painted by Belisarius (and as a product, his people) as a traitor who aligned with the rebels known for the Nika Riots, and a dishonorable fiend who attempted to kill the honorable Belisarius in his sleep. Somehow, Ignatius had everything he ever had taken from him and before he was hunted down like a dog he made to escape the city and the imperium. He fled for many months, travelling from Byzantium to Gaul and then Britannia. Finding work as a hiresword, Ignatius found work fighting Saxons and other threats as he began trying to find purpose back in his life… or what little of it he had left. Now a stranger in a foreign land, Ignatius soon found himself in association with the people of Camelot. Following an incident regarding rescuing a noble’s daughter from treacherous individuals and solving a conspiracy against them he found himself knighted by Brythonic conventions and rites— and now he potentially sits with the rest of the knights at the famous round table.

Had things started to make sense again?

_{[ ♔ ] T R A I T S O F A V A L O N}

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_{The Stag’s Eyes You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.
The Stag’s Eyes You are a master of the bow. The accuracy of your arrows is deadly and true, whether they be loosed from on foot, or from horseback.}

[Barrett]

"_{Action is eloquence.}"





Barda-beorht ♦ Male ♦ Six-and-twenty

Appearance
Standing above average height, Barda-beorht is used to looking down on most men and looking the rest in the eyes. Rare is he who forces him to look up and perhaps that is for the best. For the knight of Ravenscroft has the physique of a man not unfamiliar with combat, his chest muscled like a destrier, his arms more like the limbs of trees and his skin scarred and pitted with old wounds. His face, while most comely, often set in a thunderous expression, concentrating on each knew problem or vexation with definitive clarity.

Background
In the dark north of Britannia, there are many foul things. Dark marshes, grasping trees and beasts with four legs or two. Those with four legs will tear out your throat and eat you, but those with two will fleece you like a sheep then cut your throat for the thrill of it. The lands of Ravenscroft in particular were awash in brigands, bandits and bastards, and the folk of lands looked to their liege lord for succour and protection. But the old lord was craven, unprepared to risk his life for the lives of others nor to spend his gold to protect the wealth of others. The old man, Cothe-cyne was his name, relied upon his high walls and armed guards to protect him from the worst of the human predators, leaving those without walls or guards to suffer.

His young son, Barda-Beorht, railed against this course of action. His was the opinion that they should spend their gold on arming the peasant folk and then march upon their foes. This was not popular in the halls of his father's hold and he soon found his self packed off south to learn the ways of war, manhood and knighthood. While he first resented this expulsion from his home, Barda-beorht soon saw this as a blessing from the lord's own cup. Instead of being neglected by martial interests of his father, lacklustre at best, he was trained by masters of the blade, exponents of chivalry and warriors without compare. In the happiest times of his life, he learned how to fight, how to win and how to kill. In days after, he would oft look back upon weeks of battering and bruises with a fond smile.

In time, he was due to return to his home and to face his father once more. In their years apart, the wretchedness of Cothe-cyne's soul had seeped through into his out appearance. His gut hung over his belt, his chin was greased with fat and sweat and his hair was as to the rotting seaweed on a beached ship. He looked upon his son, in the prime of youth and forged of combat, and knew true hatred. He ordered his son imprisoned, struck down, beheaded, executed, anything to remove this reminder of his own failings. But the guards of Ravenscroft had not seen true battle in many a long year and feel like chaffed wheat before Barda-beorht's sword. Those not slain fled and the son faced his father in an empty hall. Perhaps he would've committed that most heinous sin, patricide, had not his father's weak heart given out. The fat man slumped upon his chair and breathed no more, though the rumour that his son strangled the life out of him would never really die.

Since then, few in all Britannia have worked as hard as Barda-beorht. He began by exterminating the local brigands, sending many south to face the kings justice and burying many more in shallow graves. He then sought to regain the respect of the small folk, long lost by his father, in the only way he knew how; trials of strength. They soon saw that their new lord was less a man and more a force of nature. With a compliant populace and no more looting, he set about repairing his family's holds and lands, having the crops resown, the fields turned and the seat of his family restored to its full strength. Ravenscroft would never be as beautiful or prosperous as the southern lands he enjoyed in his youth, but Barda-beorht was content with his work. And he would likely not have moved from his seat over much, fending off the occasional pict here and the odd welshman there, where it not for Arthur's quest for the grail.

⇷ Fortitude of a Bear ⇸
Ten men using all their earthly weight could not stand against Sir Barda-Beorht when they contested a length of rope betwixt them. Though they pulled and heaved, they slid towards him through the dirt as though drawn by the tide itself. After that, each man agreed to submit to one blow from one of his fists, if he could withstand a dozen blows from harsh hickory stick. In a line, they eagerly awaited their turns to give their lord a thrashing most righteous, while he meekly kneeled in muddy acceptance. When each had taken his due time, Sir Barda opened eyes cloaked in blood and rose. Not one of them withstood his punches, nor yet did any think again of him as weak.

⇷ Fangs of the Wolf ⇸
It has been said that with a sword in his hand, nothing can stand against Sir Lancelot, that he is Saint Michael's chosen champion. And all this may be true, for who knows how our lord works, but Barda-beorht is one of the few men and women in the kingdom who could offer him a challenge. His youth was little more than drab hours spent between sparring sessions, slow days passed between melees and dull months wasted before tourneys. His sword arm is like an unyielding iron bar, both immovable and irresistible, and many a knight has found his defence rigorous and testing. It is not speed that Barda-beorht has made his weapon, but skill. He doesn't move faster than most men, merely smarter.

[Zendrelax]

-Name: Gruffydd Haern

-Age: 26

-

Appearance:

-Gender: Male

-Background:
Not far south of Camelot, betwixt the demesnes of counts and earls and dukes—the illustrious members of the kingdom’s peerage—lies a small, inconsequential plot of land: the demesne of Baron Berthold Haern III. Berthold is an old man, and has been for a long time. His first wife died some two and one half decades before now, after twice as many years, or somewhere thereabouts, of faithful union. She left him three sons, the second bearing his name and the first set to inherit his moderate existence of irrelevancy. Berthold has been content in his life for a long time, but even content hearts, as his was by a young maiden, a woman by the name of Delwen from the eastern feet of the Black Mountains. Taken as he was with her, he decided to marry her.

There was outcry amongst the peerage. Something about “belittling the dignity of station.” But he was old, had an heir of wholly noble birth, and had little land of littler consequence, so everyone decided they had more important things to worry about. So, they were wed. Berthold was, despite his age, able to rise to his station, and Gruffydd was born. And very few people actually cared. None of his brothers saw him as a threat, the youngest being over a decade his senior, and the peerage still had more important things to worry about.

As one might imagine, Berthold didn’t take much of an active role in the raising of his son, being both nobility and old. That is not to say that he was absent from Gruffydd’s life, but he left much of the child-rearing to his servants, and to his wife. And Delwen made for an interesting mother. It was not known beyond a small circle of confidants—which, for the record, did include her husband— but she revered the old gods of Prydain—as, according to her, Britannia was known before the Romans came. As one might expect, she passed this down to her son. He maintained the illusion of Christian faith—this involved much more sneaking around the castle than one might expect—and otherwise had the sort of childhood one might expect for fourth son of an insignificant Baron. No, things did not become interesting for Gruffydd until he neared manhood.

Gruffydd showed a natural aptitude for the art of the blade, and that was what would bring him out of obscurity. That wouldn’t come until much later, of course, but the fact remains that he was something of a prodigy. He entered into the tutelage of his eldest brother, Cane, as a page, and then as a squire. When the time came for him to take his knightly vows, however, his heart lurched. He could not reveal his worship, and to not swear oaths before the Christian God would draw far too much suspicion. To his mind, he had no other choices left to him than to go forward. When the time came to take his knightly oaths, his voice and tongue formed the words of the church, but his heart sung the names of his own gods. Chivalry to Belyr, wisdom to Gwydion, strength to Aeron, and countless others. When he stood his vigil, he would later swear—to his closest confidants—that he saw the good folk dancing in the shadows, just beyond where he could make them out clearly. This emboldened him in his purpose, and so he set out to a Knight among knights, one of the greatest in the land. His ambition lay nowhere beneath the Round Table.

His chance for distinction soon came. A handful of months later, the Saxons descended on Britannia

Berthold was far too old to lead the levy from his demesne, so he sent Cane in his stead. Gruffydd and his other brothers led smaller portions of the force, under Cane’s command. The war was as it was—no man nor woman needs it recounted, for all living know what the Saxon scourge wrought—What needs recounting here is only the Siege of Gains Castle, towards the end of the war. Cane and the men under him, including Gruffydd and his brother Hugh—the third, named Geoffry, having already died over the course of the war—were stationed to a castle near the southern coast, as the Saxons were being pushed back into the sea. They were preparing a grand assault to finish their foe, when the Saxons struck at them fiercely. They made no efforts for a protracted siege—the reasons for this are unclear, but those who care usually point to a lack of supplies for the Saxons to last such a siege.

From dawn to dusk, the Saxons assaulted the castle five times. During the fifth and final attack, a stray arrow sent Hugh toppling from the eastern wall. Gruffydd was soon there to command the soldiers, but in the leaderless confusion, the Saxons had forced an opening and begun to surge up their siege ladders.

The bards would tell you that Gruffydd fought them, man to man, alone. Fifty horrid barbarians, clad in fur and steel, surrounding and strking him like a mass of strength and terror. The bards are fools.

Gruffydd was not alone, and were it not for the men he led, he would have died that day, tand the castle likely would have been lost. He makes a point causing harm to every bard that forgets this; those men bled with him, died for him, and he’ll not have them be forgotten.

The folly of bards aside, the fight was a sight to behold. For three hours, the men of the eastern wall held against the Saxons until, one by one, they cut the ropes of their siege ladders and sent them tumbling to the ground below.

The moon was at zenith when an army led by Sir Gawain arrived, crushing the exhausted Saxons into a rout. There were others, in other places, but these ones would do no more fighting. As has already been made clear, Gruffydd’s legend would be suitably blown out of proportion, but at the time he ust wandered off to bed as soon as the Kight of the Round Table dismissed him.

In recognition for the valor shown by their levy, Berthold’s lands were expanded after the war; a goodly number of lords were killed and left heirless by the war, and so were granted to the aging Baron, making him a Count of some consequence, which shall be inherited by Cane, and the fruits of which shall always be Gruffydd’s to return to and call upon.

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: Gruffydd showed promise as a swordsman from an early age. Having trained under the tutelage of his eldest brother for years, he has grown into one of the kingdom’s most fearsome warriors. While some of the stories about him are plainly absurd, he is still a fearsome foe that anyone would hesitate to face.

∞-The Fox’s Feet: Worshiping gods that your world has denied is not something that can be done in the open. Gruffydd has developed great skill in secreting himself around unseen to and from hidden shrines and rituals. Of course, he wouldn’t be opposed to using those skills for other purposes.

[icmasticc]

S i r R o n a n O f A g a e l y a

Thirty - Two {} Male {} The Mercenary Knight

Appearance

Though he stands at the grand height of six-foot-five at the weight of approximately two-hundred and twenty-five pounds, Ronan dislikes the connotation of the word imposing. In his own opinion, he is simply the image of a properly trained knight; broad shoulders spread out from a longish, more slender neck than one would assume to see on a man of such a weight though everything under it is appropriately bulky - arms large and defined with a toned torso and puffy chest leading into a well-built lower half.

In contrast to this physicality, his facial features appear softer though no less firm and assertive. High cheekbones and a slightly rounded face betray the squared-jaw he-man visage of those carrying a similar muscular heft though piercing blue eyes stab coldly into all who stand in front of them. His dark brown hair is kept short and neat while facial is allowed to grow into a moderate shadow likely against the regulation set by those in higher power; Ronan prefers a light beard as he finds it distinguishing.

Background

Tucked away in a relatively isolated area just southeast of Camelot, Agaelya is a moderately-sized city and somewhat of a melting pot of different kinds of people. It was here where a blacksmith found love with a chambermaid and bore a son whom they would come to name Ronan. As a child, Ronan was always a mischievous little boy. As his father busied himself with commissions from both raiders and knights and his mother focused almost completely on her duties to the master of house she served in, the young, adventurous boy often had plenty of opportunity to slip away from home and make his own fun with his small group of like-minded friends. The quartet scoured the streets of the city in search of people to mess with, fights to be had with other little groups of children, and valuable things to steal just for the thrill of it.

As Ronan grew older so too did his morally corrupt ambition grow bolder. Only then a teen, the boy impressed a small-time mercenary company with his tenacity in a fight and situational awareness. They offered the teen an apprentice role within the band promising him adventure beyond his wildest dreams and even work experience since mercenaries naturally only did jobs for pay. Without so much as a thought to consulting with his hard-working parents, Ronan jumped at the chance and began combat training under multiple members of the band. Though he possessed no previous training with weapons or tactics, it was discovered early on that Ronan's strength was abnormal for a teen his age and as the years passed and he grew older, so too did his physical prowess. It would only be a mere three years before the band finally moved on from their stay in Agaelya and a seventeen year old Ronan moved on with them - without telling his parents of exploits or decision.

It was not long before the young mercenary came to regret his decision. As the company took contracts, Ronan began to realize that almost every single one of them involved copious amounts of bloodshed. Some of the targets and organizations were well deserved, but most seemed to be people or groups being singled out for petty reasons, but the coin negotiated always had the final say. Though Ronan never disobeyed his superiors and slew those he was meant to, he could not help the budding guilt that took hold of him. Contracts persisted and more years passed and as the young man transitioned into a full grown adult, his guilt and shame over his actions begun a slow transition into self-loathing and hate for the comrades he swore allegiance to. The final straw came on the anniversary of his tenth year with the company.

A particular contract came in and was negotiated without Ronan's involvement as he had now become a high ranking member of the band. The nature of the request took the group back to Agaelya, but in a joint force with Saxon raiders. Without Ronan's knowledge, the group had agreed to involve themselves in a war that previously had nothing to do with them. It was known that chaos was consuming the North and spreading fast and furiously, but mercenaries were always able to avoid such political battles due to their very nature. Ronan made his anger and disapproval known, but it fell on deaf ears and a majority vote he found himself on the wrong side of. As the raiders along with the mercenaries ravaged the city, the guilty officer only thought of at least saving his own parents and finally showing his face to apologize for the way he'd left them and give them the explanation they deserved. He found their bodies slain just outside the family home.

Unable to contain his rage and guilt any longer, Ronan waited until the raid was over and the parties separated before he murdered the group he had shared a bond with for a decade. He was arrested soon after the incident for being part of the raid and serial murder and called a jail cell his home for a year and a half. As luck would have it, his combat prowess had been well noted over his time with what most people considered a group of raiders and he was given a second chance. In light of the chaotic war raging on, Ronan was offered the chance to atone for his crimes by becoming a Knight in service to the King as it was noted that though he had been part of the raid initally, he had also slaughtered a large portion of those who pulled their blades against the innocent and never once had he used his own weapons against anyone in Agaelya. Realizing that this was his chance to truly make a positive difference in the world rather than using combat to murder, Ronan accepted the proposition.

Eight years later, now thirty-two, Ronan stands with the other knights who have been called upon by the King and placed under the command of Sir Lancelot of the Lake and he continues to fulfill the obligation he bestowed on himself to only use his weapons in service to the King and in the name of all that is just and right.

Traits of Avalon

∞-The Bear’s Fortitude

Ronan is a Knight whose strength and tenacity seems to be abnormal. Not only is he physically stronger than the average knight, but he is truly a glutton for punishment in that he can take a serious beating. His combat style even reflects his strength as he eschews the more common long-sword in favor of a large mace and shield. What he lacks in grace and finesse, he makes up for in power and technique.

∞-The Stag’s Eyes

A skill developed from his childhood adventures and honed during his time as a mercenary, Ronan has an extreme sort of situational awareness. Whether it be in combat or off the battlefield, Ronan's spatial acuity is well above average as it was the thing that kept him alive during his early years as a mercenary.

[Culluket]

_{Ysobel of Demdyke}

_{The Red Virgin, The Kettle Knight}

19 ♦ Female ♦ Herald

Appearance

---

Ysobel is a short, stocky girl with a lion's portion of Scottish blood and dirty red hair trimmed into a simple pageboy cut. Her face is round and honest, her rosy cheeks dusted with freckles, and her eyes shine bright and green. Though her sex is unmistakable even at a glance, she has somewhat of a boyish look to her, as girls who follow in the pursuits of men are often wont to have.

She wears a thick, heavy suit of black iron armor that resembles some outlandish furnace more than it does a garment of war, wrapped with red fabric at its waist and a wolf-pelt thick around her neck, padding its heavy, pot-rimmed pauldrons and dangling down her back. The gauntlets and greaves are overlong and jut out significantly, and the whole thing seems to be cobbled together from reforged kitchen scraps.

Background

---

Ysobel of Demdyke was a shepherd girl of no high birth or consequence, raised to love Christ, speak truly and keep chaste. Though she never ventured far from the woodland moor of her village, she raised herself on myth, story and legend, tales of martial valor and courtly love, holding it all as her highest ideal.

Sturdy of body, pure of heart and determined in mind, she drove off wolves and thieves, and stood firm against the trickery of forest spirits. Yet as the Saxons pushed in, brutality and brigandry were rampant. Many able boys and men were killed or pressed into banditry themselves. Sheep were taken, food grew scarce, men bickered and turned to wickedness, averting their eyes from God. The villages of the wold were ground constantly underfoot by some misfortune or misery, and Ysobel's prayers, like everyone else's, seemed to go unanswered.

As things were at their darkest, Ysobel experienced a revelation. She would become God's answer to her people's prayers, and her own. She would live the stories she had loved all her life and make of herself the wode's protector.

She took this resolution to the blacksmith, an aged and little-used man whose crooked back prevented him from fighting himself, or even smithing in excess of his dwindling vitality. He thought the girl mad, but his heart moved at her selfless courage nonetheless, and he agreed to aid her, ashamed that he could not do battle himself.

There was not enough iron left in the village to forge arms and armor, and so Ysobel set about collecting whatever scraps she could: kettles, cauldrons, pieces of crude stoves, molding and hammering them under the smith's guidance into something that would function as plate and helm. She took wood from the destroyed chapel for her shield, along with a miraculously unburned length of deep red altar-cloth to wear about her hips as a half-tabard. Lacking the know-how to forge a sword, she took up a heavy weighted mace, as simple as the rest of her armaments. And at last it was complete: A heavy, ungainly suit of black iron, its humble origins visible in its make.

In songs, they claim the old man tempered the metal with his tears.

She rode on a pony to bier's bridge and at its midst stood her ground night and day, challenging all who thought to cross and claiming that only those with the mandate of God and country might bear the strength to move her. High words for scarce more than a girlchild clad in fat, battered old cauldrons -- and yet... she turned them back. One after another, two or three at a time if they could squeeze themselves that many abreast. She weathered stones, arrowshot and a rain of swords, vicious curses and heated promises of rapine and death, and still she stood her ground, smashing a man into the river here, shattering a helm there, even unhorsing a Saxon band who thought to simply run her down. As more and more tried and more and more failed, it seemed she truly was wholly immovable. Word of the Kettle Knight spread, and so too did the determination to overcome her and her damnable arrogance, and claim whatever it was she guarded.

It was only when Arthur himself rode to the bridge and challenged her that her vigil was finally ended. They strove against each other until night turned to dawn, and at last Ysobel was exhausted, begging tearfully, "Who art thou to undo me whenst a hundred men could not?" Whereupon the King revealed himself with noble words and holy bearing, and the girl's sorrow turned to joy. The Kettle Kight dropped to her knees and swore herself eagerly to the true-born king of Britannia, joining his war as herald and banner-bearer; for the horns rang loudest at her lips, and the standard would never fall while she held it.

Traits of Avalon

---

∞-The Bear’s Fortitude: The crude, blackened iron armor of the Kettle Knight has never been penetrated or bent. Legend amongst the commonfolk has it her faith makes it invincible; the same legend claiming it would crack like an acorn should she ever doubt. And though lacking the speed and grace of some of her peers, the weight of her attire and the strength of her conviction gives Ysobel tremendous momentum and force. Lances break like twigs against her shield and even the strongest opponent may find themselves on their back at the brunt of her charge.

∞-The Lion’s Roar: Holy purpose shines from the Kettle Knight's countenance and the humility of Christ is visible in her simple, makeshift armor. To raise one's hand against the red virgin is to curse God, and all who behold her know it.

[TheMoatedGrange]

Lady Meredith of Hwethyd
The Green Woman

31 ¦ Archer/Healer

Appearance:

Meredith stands slightly taller than average, and is willowy and thin, with a sinewy, muscular body made more for agility than for prolonged swordsmanship. Her eyes are a brown colour, and her hair is a shining auburn-red.

She is often apparelled in light mail armour mixed with leather pieces rather than anything heavier, and rather than wearing a full great-helm she often chooses to wear a helm without a visor, upon which she has had embellished green oak leaf decals. Her weapon of choice is the longbow, and so she is often found with both this and a quiver of arrows at her side. As for hand weaponry, which carries a thin, lightweight shortsword at her shin, to be used only in the most dire circumstances.

Background:

Meredith's background is murky and relatively ill-defined, and she herself is known to give conflicting accounts of her upbringing as often as she is asked. What remains clear is that she was born to a noble family, potentially of Gaul stock over the sea, a fact betrayed by the soft accent that still afflicts her speech to this day. Furthermore, it is evident that she was well-educated - perhaps even spending some time in Rome or Constantinople - but that circumstances that she is unwilling to divulge forced her to flee to the land of the Britons.

Her first experiences in Britannia were varied and fraught with danger, and she was run out of East Anglia after being accused of witchcraft by a local petty lord. She arrived in Camelot under these auspicious circumstances, bringing with her very little in the way of possessions but pledging her allegiance to the land's king as soon as she was able, in person. Though a woman, and so unconventional in this respect, Meredith soon proved her worth both as a knight and fighter but also as a healer - with an enormous and varied knowledge of medicine, poultices and wound care that led to her gaining a reputation as 'The Green Woman' in the armies that she was part of.

Opinions of Meredith varied during this time. Many found her strange and somewhat unorthodox social manner and her unbecomingly unfeminine knowledge of plants, healing and other learned matters somewhat disconcerting, and more than once did she clash with those who sought to displace her. Accused of witchcraft almost routinely, Meredith never became a figure of popular acclaim amongst the nobles and the peasant folk of Camelot, instead often attaching herself to the retinues of more popular and commonly chivalric knights.

During the Saxon attempted invasion, Meredith fought bravely, a fact that was commended by King Arthur, who finally knighted her in a ceremony as unorthodox as the rest of the women's service. She was granted a small fiefdom in the south-western corner of Camelot, and in Hwethyd she constructed a manor that allowed her to draw a regular income from her demesne. With this, she was able to finally put a tentative food in the door of Camelot's power structure.

Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Falcon’s Talon: You are a master of the bow. The accuracy of your arrows is deadly and true, whether they be loosed from on foot, or from horseback.

[FitzEmpress]

Mael o Glynn Duwy

Twenty-Eight
Male
"The Hedge Knight"

• Appearance

Mael is a curiosity, if not an outright oddity, within the circle of knights. Nonconforming to the idealised picture of Camelot's knights, beautiful men in glistening armour under a clear day's sun as they ride; Mael is considered dishevelled individual in comparison. A tussle of curls that matches his life in some respects, of average height and build, curious looking blue eyes, bare whiskers that make for facial hair. A man of no real beauty yet of no real unseemliness. Mael the man earns no real scorn, it is, in fact, his knightly image that is the disharmonious sight to some. Wearing what seems to be a crudely put together sortie of protection, jerkin leather of once black dye faded to time and the elements resting over mail, gauntlets wrapped in rags, leather boots covered in mud and iron-knee cap protectors, a conical helmet that never seems to sit easy on his head and a warp and weft scarf ever present around his neck. As such, his raggedy appearance has earned him a certain moniker from his fellow knights; for when one speaks of the Hedge Knight - the horseless, landless, ever wandering knight of dirt and muck, who rests beneath the stars, a roof of leaves and branches to shield him from the elements, they are almost always speaking of Mael.

Which, begs to question, as to where Mael acquired such an exceptional sword. A dark blade that is both beautiful and grotesque patterned with designs thought to herald from the Norse lands westwards. How Mael managed to obtain such a weapon, with no riches to speak of, a family with no noble heritage for it to pass into his hands from. It is both a curiosity to many, and an affront to others that such a prize should be wielded by a man who spends his time picking around old ruins and wandering the countryside.

Of course, the wiser of these dissents keep their idealisation of the blade to their own company. For despite their mockery of the Hedge Knight, it is not a weapon unearned.

• Background

Mael o Glynn Duwy, son of Iach. Is a man of no real heritage, of no real greatness. His early history is interesting for someone to come from so little. What is known - that is, of what Mael has spoken of - he was an only child. He remembers little of his mother, having passed at a young age giving birth to his sister, who also passed onto the next world. He and his father left his native Kernow at a young age, taking with him only his name, both son and child travelling the island of Briton, resting their heads in one place before disappearing to the next. His father, however, was a doting figure, a rarity of sorts, if not a little odd. A young Mael remembering his father as a man who always appeared to be forever watching the horizon, as if the white son of Nud would come riding upon the world should he ever falter in his watch. Despite the soft-spoken and kind nature of his father, a man who asked only after he had given as much in return, was an accomplished and terrifying swordsman, whilst Mael never witnessed his father kill a man, he never sought to question it, enough time with his father training was enough validation. It did not take Mael long to decipher that his father's income was supplemented by his killing of men. For what reason his father was driven to do so, he never questioned, but he saw how his father was treated as both hero and demon by the townsfolk who had called to him. A slayer to their problems. He knew the job was done when they would leave early in the morning, before the dawn of the sun. They would pack up and depart for the nameless village and homestead and slay whatever plagued the people. To dirty his hands where no other man would. His father's habit of leaving him with the local abbey aided in Mael's education, where he learned to read, write and recite history such luxuries no other adolescent of his age could afford - there was, also some irony to enjoy, as neither son nor father worshipped the new Roman god, though he listened to the tales of Jesus Christ, Mael was swayed little, clinging to the old, if not dying, ways.

Upon his seventeenth name-day, father and son separated, not by choice but by unfortunate fate. The first time Mael had killed, the first time he witnessed his father kill. His father's method was perplexing, to say the least, his father first gave the men a choice to abandon their endeavour, once they ignored this, he delivered a warning, when they ignored this, his father stated with a coolness and naturally that there would be no further requests following his last one. When they ignored this, the men died. It did not last long, it was not so much of a battle than more of a culling of wild animals. However, in the panic, a stray arrow had found rest in his father's shoulder, shattering one of his bones. Despite safely removing the arrowhead and cleaning the wound, it began to fester, the pain of a broken bone growing worse with each day. On the final day, his father left, before the sun rose - as was their custom - with the simple explanation that he would head north, and slay the last giant.

Mael never followed.

Having been left everything they had gathered in their time, Mael could have afforded a small farmstead, found a wife and settled, siring children. Maybe serve some nobility as he could read and write. His past life was at an end, with no father to guide him, yet, despite that, Mael sold most of his possessions and like his father, disappeared. Falling off the face of the world.

Mael reappeared when the Saxon's invaded. The series of bloody conflicts around Snodengaham had stalled the Britons, the risk of a Saxon victory would give them near control of the middle of England. Strolling into the Briton's camp, a dowdy man covered in mud and blood, with him, a sword far too great for him spoke softly, humbly, his words clear and dialect clean. Sir Gawain listened as the man spoke of the caves of the land, how far they ran and how blind the Saxons were to their potential. This ramshackle man provided a valuable prize and though it was Gawain who won the battle, he did not forget the man who offered so much and asked for nothing in return.

Mael since has lived most of his time as a knight away from Camelot, his visits to Camelot sporadic following his knighthood. Many would argue that the Hedge Knight is more of a scholar or, a monk, than he is a warrior. However, those that know him or have witnessed him know otherwise. It's not only wanderlust or knowledge that propels the Hedge Knight forward, but a certain justice. A duty he commits himself to dutifully.

• Traits of Avalon

∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: "I've heard the common folk refer to the Hedge Knight by another name - ah, so you've heard it too? - Well, be sure to remember it next time you insult his name. There is a wild animal beyond that civility."

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: "Have you ever seen the way he looks at things? I caught him once watching the melee, he had no interest getting involved, that's sort of his way. But it was the way he watching, his eyes were breaking down everything and putting them back together in his own way. I'd say that he predicted everything everyone was about to do.

[Danko]

-Name: Sir Gerold the Dusk Knight

-Age: 27

Appearance

-Gender: Male

-Background: Gerold was born as the second son in an old and proud, but much diminished house who's lands were located on the eastern coast of England, just above the welsh border. His father was a proud man who was doing his best to keep his now barren lands afloat financially. Although he had many allies at court and among the other lords of the land he would not ask them for any assistance though it is likely they would have given this gladly. He had been a chivalrous and noble knight in his youth and was still an honourable man but taking handouts or charity as he saw it was not something he was willing to do.

Gerold and his older brother were both trained as knights by their father, who took an active role in raising them, partly because he lacked the funds to employ masters who would teach his sons to the level he felt befitted his family but also because he genuinly wished the best for his children and wanted them to be knights like him. While his brother became more interested in the aspect of managing lands and bureaucracy Gerold truly loved the martial pursuits. He learned to use the lance and sword as well as how to lead men on a battlefield. He greatly admired his father and wished to become a great hero like he had been in his youth.

When Gerold turned 12 he was sent by his father to squire with one King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, Sir Bors de Ganis, whose father had been a comrade and ally of Gerold's own. During this time he took part in many battles against the Saxons and came to be recognised as a skilled swordsman as well as a stalwart ally to Sir Bors and his companions.

One winter, while on an extended campaign to rid the eastern coast of Saxons, Gerold fell ill with a fever and was left by Sir Bors in a small castle under the care of the local lord, who was to elderly to join the war party. Sir Bors and his companions took their army onwards to continue driving the Saxons out while Gerold recovered. No long after his strength had returned Irish raiders, who had been taking advantage of the disarray caused by the Saxon invasion, attacked the lord's lands and became raiding and murdering their way inland.

All the lords knights had gone off to fight against the Saxons so there was nobody to lead the local militia against the raiders. Gerold, at this time only 16 years of age, volunteered to lead the militia and drive the Irish back to the sea. He waited until the sun began to set and launched a surprise attack on the raider's camp using the sun which was low in the sky to blind his enemy he managed to scatter their forces as they retreated back to their ships and fled.

The lord praised Gerold on his return and relayed his deeds to Sir Bors who brought Gerold to King Arthur himself to be knighted. Due to his tactics during the battle against the Irish he was dubbed the “Dusk Knight” by his companions and he served the rest of the campaign and many more against the Saxons until finally a peace was reached. He returned to his father's land to help his brother and now elderly father. His father expressed his pride in Gerold's deeds which were by now spreading across the land and granting him some measure of fame. He used this fame to attract lords and knights to his father's lands which in turn brought wealth and allowed his father to make improvements that would allow his house to gain some of the prestige it had lost over the years.

When Sir Lancelot became regent and was tasked with bringing together knights to aid him at court his cousin sir Bors suggested his former squire, Sir Gerold, as a suitable choice. A letter was sent to Sir Gerold who left for court at once.

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: Your swordsmanship is the stuff of legend. An average foe that is at the tip of your blade can expect to taste its fatal bite.

∞-The Lion’s Roar: You exude an air of command, confidence, skill, and righteous purpose. Your enemies are hesitant to engage you upon the battlefield, and they grow anxious at the mere mention of your name.