NAME: Flint Ambrose
SEX: Male
AGE: 35 (Middle-Aged).
HOMELAND: The Black Duchy, formerly the Kingdom of Lithenia.
BACKGROUND: Tradesman
TRAITS: - Strider – Flint is not the strongest, the fastest, or the smartest. But he knows how to take what he has and use it to survive.
- Tactician – When you’re at this for half of your life, you usually develop an eye for strategy.
FLAWS:- Sleepless – Most people go to sleep at night, but Flint... it takes a bit.
PROFICIENCIES: 16 +4 Skill points
Expertise:
Tactics II (3 points)
Folklore I (1 point)
Mathematics I (1 point)
Skills:
Cooking II (3 points)
Herbalism II (3 points)
Flute I (1 point)
Social:
Command I (1 point)
Weapons:
Swords II (3 points)
Shields II (3 points)
PERSONALITY:Flint can be the stoic type; he has endured hardships and pain, but gritted his teeth and got on with it. That’s all he really has to do. Not much he can see ahead of him, and not much that would come after, either. This also extends to people. He’s not gone out of his way to make friends, and can often appear aloof. That said, he does try to care for the few people he knows – it’s simply that he’s lost enough people that it becomes hard to care for anyone more.
He tries to watch out for his friends, or rather, comrades, to make sure that they live to see another day. Whether this is interposing a sword or shield to halt a deadly blow, making sure they don’t make enemies of import or just plain shouting at them, he’ll do his best. If he doesn’t have any bodies to care about, he’ll just worry about making sure whatever’s trying to gut him gets gutted first.
And as for his beliefs… Flint practices some of the Old Ways, but he is no god-fearing man. In fact, he doesn’t fear much at all. Put him in a panic? Certainly. But there are only a two things Flint has truly come to fear. The first is meeting his end – a reasonable fear by any means, and one that has often kept him his hide. And second… Duke Garcell of the Black Duchy. That man is truly a demon to him.
He's also coming to regret how long he's been in the game... the number of creases on his brow have increased. He hasn't found any grey hairs, but it's only a matter of time. Both signify he's nearing an age where he won't be as effective a fighter as he used to be. Even if he became a captain of some kind, he would still see war. Or he could purchase some land, open a shop or an inn, get a pretty wife - the standard dream. He can't trudge dirt paths forever. So once again, his life falls to a choice.
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:Not tall, not short, with tawny brown hair and gold-flecked brown eyes, he would not stand out among the people you might see in the Aldaric Sea, common as that is. He couldn’t even tell you from whom he is descended – though he has his presumptions. He’s fairly balanced in his athleticism, lean enough to be quick, muscled enough to be strong, and, well, he's had an admirer or two in his life.
EQUIPMENT:A bastard sword and a simple iron shield are his primary tools-of-choice, with a leather brigandine, bracers and greaves, and steel-toed boots, with a plate helm and leather cap he wears if knocks to the head are likely. He has a crossbow and a dagger, too, but mostly it’s piecemeal things he’s picked up over the years. Most of it he just sold on to someone else. Add in his bags with enough food and clean water to get him to the next town, some dried herbs and strips of cloth in case he injures himself, kindling and a flint to light the occasional fire, a wooden flute which he whittled himself and occasionally plays, a whetstone and oil for his gear, a bedroll and blanket for sleeping, rope, which you always need, and his coin, and he’s set to go for his journeying. You might think that’s a lot for one man to carry, and you’d be right, which is why he brings along Gale, a bay-coloured mare. She’s not exactly one to ride, and she’ll kick if she’s made uncomfortable, but they seem to have a good relationship.
HISTORY:Flint was born to a herbalist and a miner in a provincial town, in the Kingdom of Lithenia. He refuses to call it by any other name. He was twelve when Barthos Garcell staged his coup, and that was about when his father died, too. And under the Duke’s (now King’s) rein, things certainly changed. He remembers how harsh things were back then. The toll it took.
In lieu of taking up a pick-axe, Flint’s mother taught him her herb trade, how to grow some, where others grew wild, and which ones not to touch, and then how to mix them, cut them, mash them, brew them. It took several months, and a number of arguments, before he relented. He’d run the town to make deliveries and hiked into the mountains to go where his mother dare not. He met a few 'Low Aldonians' at that time, too. The ones who saw him were brash, and the ones who didn't... he came to pity these people. Their ancestors had left them quite the legacy. Aside from those distractions, he and his mother were still relatively happy... but as it always does in stories, that didn’t last.
Just before his sixteenth, his mother died, in a fit of Fate’s Irony, from illness. And that took everything from him. He didn’t have nearly the expertise his mother did in herbs, and the horror stories of explosions in the mines struck that off the list. That left starving, begging, or apprenticeship to a craftsman or trader… or enlisting. He was too old to find anybody who’d take him, and he’d seen enough dead in the streets to know that trying to beg would starve him anyway. And that left enlistment.
He remembered the time the King took over. He didn’t want to be a part of that. But what choice did he have? It came in the form of a mercenary company, in search of new work and fresh blood for the fold. They had no interest in a scraggly youth, untrained and untried, but a single man took pity on him. Menos was an old veteran, more one to bark than bite, and reaching his decline. But he claimed to see the fighting spirit in Flint. So Flint sold what he no longer needed, including the only home he knew, bought a rusted sword and mould-ridden shield, and left. His training took some time, years spent on the road until he was on par with his mentor. He helped his group wherever he could, and joined his company in fights when they happened. He turned twenty by the time he could afford a proper weapon. And he was more than distraught when, in a moment of hesitation from Flint, Menos took a blow for him. It proved fatal.
That was all it took for Flint. Despite the congratulations of his comrades and the coin in his pocket, he felt numb. Death was a thing that happened. He had always known that. But one after another, they’d left him behind. He’d lost most all he considered dear to him. Taking his share of coin from the company, he bought a filly pony and left on amicable terms with the men he’d known for the past four years. His time since has been spent as an escort, making sure bandits and pirates don’t lay their hands on his charges, and on occasion, grabbing the occasional thief or murderer. The only place he’s not gone in the last twelve years has been the Duchy itself.
