[CHAR] Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world! [REBOOTED] [FULL]

[Andreyich]

Waldemar

Username: @Andreyich

Character Name: Vladimir (or Waldemar, which he typically uses in unfamiliar company) Ivanovich Vetrov

Race/Species: Kislevite Human

Gender: Male

Age: 26

Career and Skills: Vlad has spent much time honing magical skills in the Imperial colleges but they are not nearly as good as can be, for there were few other ice mages there to pass on their specialized skills to him. As such, most of his powers are uncontrolled bursts of his ice magic fuelled by emotion, desire or desperation. However, on days where the winds of magic flow truly strong he can manage up to three unique spells of his respective school. From his studies and Noble upbringing he did receive a few more skills. First is fencing and swordplay which he can at least hold his ground in, and is improved by the blood-freezing cold in his blades. The other important skill he got is speech in several languages; both main Kislevite tongues (Ungol and Gospodar), Bretonnian, Reikspiel, and Norscan, all of which he is a good negotiator and fluent in save for the rolled "R"s.

Weapons: The only real 'weapons' in possession of the Kislevite are two familial blades (one a Shashka, and one a Szabla) and a long staff with a crystal of ice or diamond at the top cut to a fine point so the weapon could be used as a spear.

Attire: The man has little in the way of armour, preferring to just wear his round fur hat or 'papapkha,' along with simple trousers, tunic, a heavy fur coat and leather boots with steel caps.

Equipment/Other: He has little in the way of equipment other than his old but tough horse "Paul" along with spurs, saddle bags and saddle, reins, and whatever else he will need for the old boy. He always makes sure to have a pot, kettle, tea leaves, sugar and butter with him for a very strong and nourishing tea to help him end the feebleness he feels after using magic.

Physical Description: The Kislevite is of moderate height at 5'11 with pale white skin contrasted by mud-brown hair and icy blue slightly Asiatic eyes, as well as a very ruddy complexion. His face is very elongated and aquiline save for the small nose and small forehead with a low hairline. A distinctive physical features is a scar on both hands where excess thumbs were amputated. Vlad is double jointed at many points in his body (wrists, thumbs, elbows, knees) and has a naturally very lanky build that despite years of hard work driving him to the peak of his muscularity is still not very much above average and is best described as sinewy.

Mental Description/Personality: Vlad is a polite and helpful if somewhat impatient man, that will always put a coin in a beggar's hand. That said he had a somewhat irate and unpredictable personality with mood swings and such. He is still very affected by a longing for home, and the fact that even if he does safely get there he will not be able to see his father is just more melancholic.

Background/History:
Vladimir was born to an affluent Gospodar family outside of Praag doing business with the Ungols of the city. His father was a rather stereotypical Kislevite nobleman; a bulky man with a red face, a beard, a constant friendly laugh verging on a guffaw and a warm heart. His mother was somewhat inverse, an Ice Witch. She married him just as many Ice Witches marry noblemen to make sure their sorority keeps power in the country. She was a stunning lady with the usual charms that let her seduce his father. Yet, everywhere else she was a cold and calculating person with her duty first and foremost in her mind all that time.

As the boy grew he was mostly raised by his father and his tutors having a rather happy but isolated life spending most days hunting, fishing, riding with his father or lazily pretending to do what his mentors desired of him.

However, at some point in the near future things were to change oh so drastically. A raiding party of Norscans had just plowed through a nearby river and was going to a pond where he and his father were. To their luck the family had their body Guards with them which more than stood their ground, but just as the assault happened his father was thrown into the icy water to drown by the Northerners.

As Vlad looked on at his struggling parent with tears, he was overcome with grief and anger, and felt something within as many magically gifted people do at their first exhibition of their power. He screamed and flexed a few fingers to suddenly water under his father freeze and push the man out on a small floe of ice.

At this point the teen boy was exhausted from the magical exertion had had undergone, and lapsed from consciousness. His father however, got out of the water and soon realized what had just happened. The aging man had to think quickly and called home for some of his most trusted men. The boy was re-dressed and put in a coach. When he came to his sense, his father had a long talk with him. It was filled with many tears and much lament but there was no choice. If the boy was to come home it would be at most a few days before either his mother killed him. Two family swords, much money and an old family servant who both knew would defend and help the boy until either of them passed. He was sent off to the Imperial colleges of magic, to most likely never see hearth and home again.

When he arrived in the Empire he was quite surprised, and it took much adjustment. He began his studies working as hard as he could, learning about the winds of magic. Eventually his servant passed away, and this coincided almost perfectly with his money running out. He had to take one work elsewhere to subside properly, menial stuff like washing, or even cleaning privies. However, he got the most he could from his learning until about a year ago when he reached the peak of what the colleges could teach him. When this truly dawned, Vladimir now a young man decided to find his fortunes elsewhere. He saved up for a short time, and now set out to find himself work, fame, glory, and a life that wouldn't have him hunched by his thirties. Thus, he set put for the guild of esteemed sellswords to make use of his unique talents and abilities.

[Dusty]

Frans Vou

I

Username: Dusty

Character Name: Francois Vou of House Bluspereaux/Frans Vou

Race/Species: Bretonnian

Gender: Male

Age: Twenty and one years

Career (if any) and Skills: Frans Vou is a Knight Errant of Bretonnia. A son of the wealthy Bluspereaux house Frans Vou was well trained in the arts befitting his station. As such he is a capable chevalier in all aspects, and he’s handy with both sword and lance. He can also speak the language of the Empire and the High Elves, and is well versed with a lute and can recite several famous poems and epics. His high class education did not end there however. Great things are expected from the Bluspereaux family, and so Frans Vou found himself trained to competence in hunting and strategy, in diplomatic expertise, and conversation. The latter two were Frans Vou’s lesser loved classes. He was also tutored on astronomy and mathematics and literature, and for a short while he even studied a little of the sciences though little came of that. And of course chivalry and the worship of the Lady of The Lake which are expected fields of study from any young Bretonnian knight.

Weapons: While astride his warhorse Frans Vou wields his trusty lance and heater shield to great effect. The lance is endowed with the heaven’s magic keeping it from shattering, blessed by a damsel of the lady. It was one of the few things passed down to Frans Vou and he adores it. Should the enchanted weapon be wrenched from his grasp Frans Vou has an arming sword and dirk at his waist ready for quick use as well.

Attire: Frans Vou’s favorite color is a royal blue. As such his armor and clothing often matches this particular taste. His armor tunic is a deep shade of blue with lioness designs embroidered in bronze, with a black leather sword belt and bronze buckles strapped around his stomach. The armor is gleaming iron plate and chainmail. While out of his armor Frans Vou dons a cinnamon tunic and trousers, draping a sky blue cloak around his shoulders. All of his outfits are finished with a pair of tall riding boots and golden spurs.

Equipment/Other Frans Vou has very little in terms of proper equipment beyond his armor and weapons. He’s used to comfortable living and would dictate that his servants carry and care for whatever gear and shelter he might require while journeying. To do just that Frans Vou brought with him his page Adrian, a young lad of thirteen years, and his loyal manservant Moreau. Both of whom follow the young knight astride loaded mules wherever he might wander, dutifully attending his every whim.

Physical Description: Frans Vou is tall, about six foot, one. His hair is a dirty blonde, cut neatly off at the shoulder level. His eyes are a plain brown and squinty, seemingly sunk into his sallow face and contrasted against his hooked nose. He could be considered quite handsome if he didn’t always look like he’d just stepped in something revolting. Frans Vou is rather thin and lanky, but has enough meat on his bones to look capable enough in a brawl. His long limbs serve him well in this regard, giving him that slight extra reach. He typically stands straight back and tall, his feet planted firmly and one hand resting on his sword hilt. Frans Vou is very much a noble son of Bretonnia, and in many ways embodies the facets of the royal elite that govern the great kingdom.

Mental Description/Personality: While holding a vast number of traits, Frans Vou is by no means a humble or compassionate man. Arrogant and proud the young Knight Errant views himself as the smartest, and noblest of men. Often gracing peasants and commoners with his presence and even a few coins if he’s feeling generous. Although he’s cocky, Frans Vou isn’t stupid, and is in fact quite intelligent. He is also a social person and can be very easy to get along with, quick to slap a friends back and shake a companion’s hand and drink fine wine with them late into the night. As long as one can stomach his unfettered arrogance the young knight can be a good friend to have in all circumstances. However Frans Vou can also be petty and unforgiving. Not quick to the sword, but merciless when driven to anger. He is also very determined, and can be difficult to persuade once his mind has been set.

Background/History: House Bluspereaux is a large family living in southwestern Bretonnia, in a great manor. The Noble House is well known for producing brave knights, and honorable noblemen for the high class, and has never failed to ride in haste once summoned by the king or their lords. There the fields are filled, the vines rich, and the forest thin. Winters tend to be a little harsher due to their close proximity to the southern mountains, but never enough to worsen the living state of the static population, and thus nobody cared much that the taxes were a bit higher than the bordering lands. It was blessing enough to know there would always be food on the table, and a fearless knight in the castles to protect the common folk.

It was here in the mild lands of House Bluspereaux that Francois Vou Bluspereaux, son of Vincent Vou Bluspereaux was born. Raised as all boys of noble blood ought to be, Frans Vou’s upbringing was meticulous and strategized. It was easy to plan after all, Vincent having already had fourteen sons to struggle with before Frans Vou. The years passed quickly for the lad, and he spent his time studying and training to become a grand knight like his ancestors before him. His arrogant demeanor was considered normal by the Bluspereaux family, and was often even encouraged by the manor staff and his immediate family. This came to a head however when Frans Vou discovered a terrible truth. He’d been born one place short.

Indeed, Vincent had no more lands to divide up between his many children leaving Frans Vou with title of his own. Furious at such a slight of nature Frans Vou fulminated for days and nights at his father and mother demanding his birth right, but to no avail. There was simply nothing to be done, and the young man settled into a slumping depression. It was like this that on his twenty first birthday when he was knighted and given lance and golden spurs that Frans Vou realized he would have to take matters into his own hands, should he ever wish to preside over proper lands of his own. But first he would have to anger his father to punish him for such a monstrous slight.

The scheme as Frans Vou saw it was simple. He was now a Knight Errant, charged with finding some great beast to slay, or adventure to attend, or damsel to save. So in order to infuriate his father while completing his duty Frans Vou decided to join a band of Imperial Mercenaries and adventurers, and depart on his grand quest in their company. Frans Vou in all his youthful arrogance announced this plan with bold confidence during the evening meal, the night before he departed. As expected his father became furious, and raved at his foolish son who would so willingly soil the family name with such petty actions, but to little affect. It was a cold, and gloomy morning following day, frosty not from the chilled air but from the livid anger that radiated off the castle walls. Frans Vou and his manservant Moreau and page Adrian left early, departing for Rottfurt at an easy pace not wanting to spend a second more within the Bluspereaux manor.

[Lucian]

The Lion

Username
Lucian

Character Name
Galadred "The Lion"

Race/Species
Asur

Gender
Male

Age
122

Career Overview
Galadred is the descendant of one of the White Lions of Chrace and can claim a rich familial ancestry that goes back nearly to the founding of the order. As such, it was fated that he join their ranks at a young age (for an elf) after demonstrating great martial ability and a knack for good leadership. At the age of fifty, Galadred set out to hunt and kill a white lion, the beasts for which the order he sought entry into was named. Though the rite of passage into the order cost him his handsome and pristine elven features (The beast landed a near-fatal blow to Galadred's face, resulting in a long, permanent scar) he nevertheless overcame the Lion, and claimed it's pelt as a badge of honour, and a symbol of his acceptance into the order of the White Lions. He served as a Lion exceptionally for fifty years, and took up the defense of countless Noble Families of Ulthuan.

Eventually, however, he was involved in a scandal which, to his chagrin, resulted in his expulsion from Ulthuan. Since then, Galadred has wandered the Old World as a mercenary, to various degrees of success. While his skill is not in question (indeed, he is somewhat famous for his martial prowess among mercenaries) he is choosy about what cause he will sell his blade to, tending to prefer escort and defense missions to anything else, and he never supports forces he deems unworthy. While this code of Mercenary ethics is relatively cumbersome when it comes to the acquisition of wealth, combined with his proficiency in combat, it has lead to his semi-fame in the mercenary world, and his moniker of The Lion, though his appearance certainly contributed to this as well.

Weapons
Argent Roar is Galadred's signature weapon. The ancestral battleaxe of his family, passed down through generations of White Lions, each adding their own flair and enchantments to the weapon, as is the custom. The blade is formed of Ithilmar, and the weapon is thus extremely light and wieldy. At a command from it's wielder, the axe's blade can be magically 'ignited,' causing it to glow with a brilliant radiance. When swung in this state, the axe seems to roar as it cuts the wind, this is the enchantment for which the weapon gained its name. Aside from this enchantment, the weapon has countless enchantments of sharpening and preservation, ensuring that even to this day, despite centuries of use, it is as pristine as ever.

Aside from Argent Roar, Galadred keeps a small, ordinary dagger at his belt.

Attire
Ithilmar Armour in the style of the White Lions, though with his family's noble heraldry and any signs or marks of his merit in service to the Phoenix Court removed, and without the tall helmet that is another signature of the order.

Equipment/Other
Galadred still wears the pelt of the white lion. Despite his exile from Ulthuan, it serves as a testament to his past exploits and skill. In a more utilitarian manner, the thick pelt can be used to great effect to tangle and deflect light missiles such as arrows.

Physical Description
Like any high elf, Galadred is tall and graceful in his movement, with handsome angular features to his fair-skinned face. However, the similarities end there. He is well-toned and strong in appearance, barely retaining the lithe physique of his kin for all of his muscle. The left side of his face is marred by three claw marks that run straight down from his forehead to his chin, cutting through the left side of his nose and clefting his lip, the result of his fight with the white lion. His ithilmar armour is a few pieces shy of the full set, giving Galadred a sort of uneven and worn, yet undeniably noble look. His beautifully blond hair is cut short and unkempt, in a permanent state of "bed-head," something rarely seen on an elf, as the length of their hair is often as important to them as the beard is to a dwarf. Even when out of his armour, Galadred is rarely seen without his white lion pelt cloak. The cloak itself is massive, thick, and heavy, with the lion's head resting on Galadred's left shoulder like a pauldron. Galadred's overall appearance evokes past glories, dimmed by shame and exile, but still bright enough to be worthy of note.

Mental Description/Personality
Galadred is haughty to a degree, though less so than many high-elves due to his humbling shame, and exile from his homeland. His life in the Old World among humans and Dwarfs and sell-swords of all types has lead to a blunting of his noble elven refinement and though he is still poised and respectful for the likes of a mercenary, he is considered brash and crude for one of the Asur. Despite this, he is kindhearted and will always step in to fight injustice or evil as he sees it, and protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Background/History
As previously mentioned, Galadred rose to the ranks of the White Lions at an early age and served exceptionally as a guard for many nobles of the Phoenix Court, so in this section I'll just focus on the events leading up to his exile. Galadred fell in love with the scion of one of the noble houses he was meant to be protecting. It was forbidden, as the noble was bound in marriage to another. However, the attraction was mutual, and Galadrad and the other noble began a clandestine affair. The affair lasted for a long time, with Galadred becoming the personally appointed guard of the noble's family and head of their security detail. Despite the dishonour of keeping their relationship hidden, it worked well for many years, until a Dark Elf raid on the noble family's compound forced Galadred to choose between saving his lover's life, or that of the noble's family. Resources would not allow for both. Galadred chose his lover, and after he and his contingent of White Lions had saved the young noble, they pushed the Druchii to route and secured the compound.

However, the Dark Elves had not left empty-handed. They had taken the noble's family, likely to work as slaves until death, as was the dark elf way. Galadred's lover was furious, wracked with guilt, and lacking any vent, he turned on Galadred. Galadred's blunder was revealed to the Phoenix Court, and in the fashion of high elven politics, the scandal was revealed. The Noble blamed Galadred for all of it, claiming that he had been coerced by Galadred, and that his advances were unwanted. Galadred pleaded his case as best he could, but it was his word against the scion of a noble house who had the ear of the Phoenix King. So, Galadred lost his hereditary title, his place among the White Lions, and even his place in Ulthuan. He was only allowed to keep his family's axe, as there were no other heirs to wield it, and his equipment from his time as a Lion. So, with only that in hand, he set off to the Old World, bitter and scornful.

In the Old World, he found new purpose in the life of a mercenary. He found that he could still protect people, which was his passion, and so he often took contracts which allowed him to escort merchants or join in the defense of small settlements. Eventually, after making something of a name for himself in the mercenary community, he joined the Guild Of Esteemed Sellswords.

[POOHEAD189]

Drimbold the Longbeard

Username:POOHEAD189

Character Name: Drimbold Balkinson

Race/Species: Dawi (Longbeard)

Gender: Male

Age: 253

Career (if any) and Skills: Drimbold has been a professional Dwarf soldier for most of his life. He began as a miner in Karaz-a-Karak, before a Grobi incursion erupted within one of the holes his group had dug in. He was enlisted as a soldier, and found it to be his calling, even being promoted to Ironbreaker. He knows how to fight, he knows the structure of tunnels and the mining of ore. He can somewhat smith mundane items, though while this would be superb to manlings, it would not be the best Dwarf work. He also knows how to read a battlefield and map terrain.

Weapons: Gromril Axe, 3 steel Throwing Axes

Attire: Leather jerkin over Gromril chainmail, with a steel helmet and sturdy trousers and steel boots, along with steel greaves, pauldrons, and bracers.

Equipment/OtherHe carries a small travel sack, with a small blanket, a flask of bugman's, a pipe with pipeweed, and a locket of his family.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): This longbeard is weathered, with gnarled, leather skin covered in scar tissue telling of ancient battles. His hair on his head is close cropped, yet his beard flows past his knees and is adorned with bronze fixings with khazalid symbols, creating 7 separate ends of his beard. Though his hair is grey and his iron eyes speak of a lifetime of wisdom, he is intensely muscled and broad. Somewhat tall for a Dwarf, the top of his helmet is still no higher than the average manling's navel.

Mental Description/Personality: Drimbold is initially what you would expect most Longbeards to be. Dour, grumbling, wise yet brawny and still fit. However he has a deep sadness and infuriating, simmering anger beneath his beard that most need to look hard at to see, for when his family was slain, he found that even the death of the Boss who did it didn't fully sate his rage at the injustice of the world. Drimbold is not without his comraderie and light heartedness however, for he enjoys campaigning and a good smoke of pipeweed. Long marches ease his mind, and he isn't above giving wise advice to the manlings or younger members of his company.

Background/History: Drimbold Balkinson was born in Karaz-a-Karak to the Stoneguard Clan. Avid miners, Drimbold was a mere beardling when he began his mining career, only for him to get a taste of battle through a small Grobi incursion. He picked up his mattock and battered three to death before he and his companions escaped. He signed up as a soldier in order to get vengeance on those Grobi daring to attack the great hold, wanting to live up to his ancestor's deeds. However, he would be called to join the young, as-of-yet-to-be-Highking, Thorgrim Grudgebearer, to the north when the Chaos Incursion invaded Kislev. He was but merely 30 when he set out, and when he returned some years later he seemed a far more confident and wiser Dwarf, having faced Daemons and terrors and lived to tell the tale. Not only that, but he and Throgrim's retinue met and re-established contact with Kraka-Drak in the North.

When Thorgrim was crowned High King, those warriors who had distinguished themselves were given rewards. Drimbold asked for the honor of joining the Ironbreakers, that most prestigious of Warrior Orders. As the years progressed, he fought against the vile Skaven and the Greenskins of the dark. During his leaves, he met a young buxom beauty and fell in love with her, marrying her and fathering sons. It was when Drimbold was disrcharged to live in the countryside with his family that his life came crashing down, for Orcs attacked the passes in the World's Edged Mountains. As Drimbold was visiting a cousin in Karaz-A-Karak, his family was slain by a small time Nob boss, Gorlok Grimjaw. Drimbold spent five years hunting him down and slaying him, after receiving recompense for the lackluster rangers, a number of them shaving their heads.

With no home and no more military service, and with a great wish for violence left in him, he became a mercenary.

[ClocktowerEchos]

Loheir the Lost, the Lonely Lord

Username: Clocktower_Echos

Character Name: Loheir the Lost

Race/Species: Bretonnian

Gender: Male

Age: 32

Career (if any) and Skills: A former Questing Knight, Loheir knows plenty on fighting and wielding a great sword. Despite taking the Questin Vow, he never completed it due to his cynicism. At one point he was the protector of a small Empire hamlet, defending it form bandits, orks and beastmen almost entirety by himself as the villagers refused to support him or even give him any real respect. While defending the villagers, Loheir would continuously loose more and more of that which made him a Questing Knight until even his vows were forgotten and he forgot why he protected them. In a final act of sacrifice, he gave up the only person in the village who cared for him who was also his lover to a hedge wizard in the hopes he'd be able to enact a ritual to cleanse the area of beastmen. Except the spell backfired and turned the village to ash along with everyone in it, even Loheir's lover. Having lost everything once again, he left the ruins and wanders forever onward into an endless horizon for reasons he no longer knows or really cares about.

Weapons: While in the past Loheir had an arsenal befitting a Knight of Bretonnia, all he has left is a great, nameless two-handed machete that once belonged to an equally nameless beastman. Ages ago, he used the machete in conjunction with his Bretonnian shield -the only thing which survived his journey and ensuing battles- but now he exclusively uses it as a two handed great sword with an extended hilt, forsaking his shield as he no longer feels the need of self-preservation nor the protection of others.

Attire:
Looking at him, no one would suspect Loheir a Bretonnian knight until he opened his mouth. His armor is a motley amalgamation of crude plates taken from beastmen and orks, forced into something resemble proper armor over a chain mail tunic. His long boots and his gauntlets are but tough leather with metal plates sewn on top and nothing of his heraldry remains, not that Loheir would want any of it to be seen. Under his armor is a ragged and patchwork tunic, surviving all which its wearer has. Around his neck is a blue scarf, lovingly made by the sole maiden he ever fell in love with, and the ashes of said maiden in a pouch around his neck.

Equipment/Other
The ex "Lord of Holoheim" carries little on him. Rations, two waterskins, a sleeping mat, a small dagger, a broken vial of blessed waters and the ashes of his former lover in a small pouch around his neck.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Tall, well built and brawny, Loheir's apperance is larger of that than a normal Bretonnian. Indeed, many of his detractors have claimed him to have illegitimate Norscan blood to insult him. His body is covered in countless scars, bruises and scratches. His dull blue eyes had long since forgotten the energy and excitement of youth, leaving them colorless and hollow. His once proud mane of brown hair has been dirtied to the point of blackness with only the inkling of grey hairs breaking the dirty mess. His beard is unkept and ragged, owing to the limited time and equipment Loheir has to groom it. It wouldn't be far to say that it would be easier to assume that Loheir is some common, well built mountain bandit than a son of Bretonnia.

Mental Description/Personality:
Cynical and somber, Loheir is every well acquainted to the concept of loss and failure. His mind is a network of paradoxes and contradictions, but the man himself cares little for any attempts to clear it. Most of his actions, he does not know why he does, perhaps its out of what remains of a sense of duty or that deep down a part of him still cares and believes. Regardless, everyday is a sort of haze of him with the only real clarity being that of combat or direct orders. While meloncoly, Loheir hasn't cut himself off from the outside world and quickly latches on to people who seem even mildly interested in his story or can at least understand him, likely due to never having too many connections despite desperately wanting them in his younger years.

Background/History:
Born the youngest of an already long line of sons and an even longer line of siblings overall, Loheir was destinent to never inherent anything of value from his parents. At best, he'd get a small parcel of land and maybe a dozen peasants to lord over, but Loheir didn't want to live such a pathetic life but he was unable to escape his destiny. As such, the boy grew cynical and distant with only enough Bretonnian traditions of honor and chivalry not to be led completely astray.

Born naturally brawny, Loheir was the first of his brothers to become a Knight Errant despite his youth. He didn't spend his time feasting or learning or socializing, Loheir knew that the best way of escaping his menial fate was through war and battle. After intense pressuring from his family, Loheir reluctantly took on the Questing Oath. Granted whatever remained in the family armory, Loheir set out to "prove his worth" to a Lady he didn't believe in and a Lady who would never appear to him despite nearly two decades of Questing to come.

Every fight, every battle, every conflict brought him further and further from home. As days turned to months that turned to years, Loheir fought his way ever more distant from his home until one day, he arrived in a foreign land, surrounded by people who didn't speak his language and couldn't care for him. He had long forgotten his holy duty and noble oaths, content with wandering and simply surviving every fight he went into. Known as "the Lost", Loheir begun to forget why he kept throwing himself into battle after battle, perhaps the thrill of combat was what made him feel alive, perhaps it was truly the only thing he was good at, perhaps he simply wanted to vent his anger upon his foes in rage against the poor hand he was dealt by fate. Whatever the reasons, it was certainly no longer for some forgotten vow in the back of his mind.

It would be the village of Holoheim which Loheir's fate would truly be sealed however. A lonely hamlet beset by foul beastmen raiders and greenskin marauders, what remained of Loheir's nobility and chivalry was used to protect the villages. Catching the beastmen unaware, Loheir's skill at arms and superior weapons allowed him to slay a handful before the retreated into the forest. When he turned to the villagers however, he did not see joy or relief on their faces. Instead he saw was contempt and unsettling shame from them as they had to rely on an outsider to defend themselves. Loheir was given a cold stew and an even colder bed as rewards for his trouble.

Just like how he did not know why he kept fighting, Loheir stayed at the village and protected it from further raids. When he tried to leave, the villagers reluctantly begged him to stay and protect them as they knew their local lord wouldn't raise a finger to save them. As such, Loheir was crowed the unofficial Lord of Holoheim, but there was no glory. Instead of becoming Loheir the Lord, Loheir the Lost was more akin to Loheir, the Lonely Ruler for his subjects gave him no gratitude and only the most begrudging of spiteful respect. Those who spoke of him as "lord" were insincere and often mocking as their shame grew with every day that passed as many began to suspect that he wasn't fit to protect them.

Nevertheless, Loheir fought on for the people for reasons he didn't quite grasp himself. While he drove off raiders, bandits and greenskins, the Bretonnian kept losing a bit of himself in every fight. First he lost his helm, knocked off and crushed under hooves. Next was his heraldry, ripped off during a brawl. His horse came next, blocking an axe with its body meant for Loheir. After that was his armor, which had been worn down and ripped apart over a dozen fights and skirmishes. And finally, his sword broke after an axe shattered it in two. Despite his heroism and bravery, the villagers only came to despise him more because of how increasingly reliant they were to his service. Loheir was only staying out of what remained of a sense of duty and a woman he fell in love with and protected with the only weapons he had left, the crude greatsword of a beastman and his shield.

But when a wandering hedge wizard arrived at the village one day, an offer was made: in exchange for the hand of the maiden that Loheir was in love with, he would burn all of the threats to the village. Making one final sacrifice, Loheir accepted the demands and allowed the wizard to take the maiden's hand. However, the ritual went awry, instead of burning away just the beastmen, the entire village went up in smoke, burnt to ash, slag and rubble in seconds. Out of primal fear, Loheir ran from the village as it burned, the cries and pleads for help forever haunting him. When he returned to Holoheim, nothing remained as charred bodies where fused together. And the woman he loved so deeply? She had been reduced to ash before the what was Loheir's "throne"; a stone chair that had once had a blanket draped over it to signal that it was the "Lord of Holoheim's".

Now truly alone, Loheir wept and he grieved for even now, he failed to protect even those who hated him. He spent days in the ruins, wandering the burnt out homes and sitting upon his ruined throne, gazing upon what ashes where left, perhaps waiting for someone or something to come out of the forest and simply end him there. But nothing came for him, not even beastmen or greenskins. Having shed enough tears, Loheir left his battered sheild, the only piece of equipment that survived from Bretonnia, upon his throne of cinders and extended the handle of his great sword, no longer feeling the need of self-preservation and having no one else to protect before marching off into the distant horizon, once again for lands unknown.

[Chicken]

Dirk, Poacher

Username: Chicken

Character Name: Dirk Fulster

Race/Species: Human (Imperial; Hochland)

Gender: Male

Age: 38

Career (if any) and Skills: Dirk's about as good with a bow as you can get without being an elf, having honed his skill over a lifetime of hunting, poaching, and banditry. He is an adept woodsman and tracker, and he's not bad at creeping through the underbrush either. His eyes are keen, his ears keener, and he can tell which herbs will kill you and which make good eats.

Dirk also has some untrained skill in Amber Magic, though he does not realize it. It manifests as a connection with wild beasts, but could be honed into something more with tutelage.

Weapons: While some hunters might favor a rifle or crossbow, Dirk uses a moderately sized bow. It's not a weapon of war, and its draw isn't as strong as a longbow. However, he can fire rapidly and contend with most lighter armors well enough.

For melee weapons Dirk keeps a military hatchet and a sharp dagger. He also keeps a couple small bombs on his person. The fuses are carefully guarded.

Attire: An old gambeson, a cloth hat, patchwork cloak, dark gloves, and traveling boots make up Dirk's attire. He's not a wealthy man, and it shows. Still, his armor might save him from a sword slice or two.

Equipment/Other Dirk keeps a couple pouches of medicinal herbs. He also has a hip flask, waterskin, bandages, whetstone, sewing kit, flint, tinder, rope... Really, he has most mundane things that are useful to a mercenary adventurer. You name it, he probably has it.

It may be surprising, but Dirk has an old harp. He's actually quite good at playing it.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): Dirk hasn't quite reached middle age, but he's getting closer. He's not a tall man, standing a whopping 5'5", but he's muscular and sturdy. His beard is a curly brownish-blond mess, as is his short hair, and his skin is leathery and tough. Wrinkles have formed on his forehead, and though he's still a strong and capable fellow, he doesn't have all the vigor of youth. His brown eyes are dark and insightful. Dirk is usually little dirty and smells faintly of the woods and his own sweat.

Mental Description/Personality: A quiet, bitter fellow, Dirk doesn't care to share much about himself. Some call him standoffish; the kinder call him pensive. He's a closed book, rather preferring to listen to others while interjecting on occasion with a phrase or two. Actions speak louder than words, so he was taught, and he'd rather do something than talk about it. He's not good at seeking permission from his superiors, either.

Along with snubbing his nose to his superiors, Dirk generally has a problem with authority figures. He doesn't care much for nobles or generals or anyone like that, and he's more willing to lend his ear to other common folk like himself. He doesn't give a rat's ass what bloodline some Bretonnian has, and foreigners can go back where they came from. Except dwarves. Dwarves are alright, so Dirk reckons.

While he may not be very sociable, Dirk likes to play his harp in his free time. It calms him and lets him remember the good times. It helps him forget the bad times.

Background/History: Dirk doesn't talk about his past often. He is, as said, a closed book. It's the best defense he knows against having to think about the past, and against bounty hunters coming after him.

Dirk was born in a small Hochland village. The name doesn't matter. He was a peasant like anyone else, only he wasn't happy cutting trees or working in a mill. No, he wasn't. But he was good with a bow, and that was what mattered. He never was keen on joining the army. Being barked at by badge-wearing bastards wasn't his idea of a good time. So, he dodged recruitment in his village and lived a self-sustaining life. It was easy, and he could have lived like that 'til the end of his days.

Then Dirk had to go and fall in love. He met a pretty girl, some merchant's daughter. She had red hair. It was fiery like her spirit. They married when he was twenty-four, and things were fine at first; but it's harder to support a family than it is to just support yourself. He had to poach to make end's meet. Some years times were even harder, and Dirk had to play outlaw. He hated working with bandits and murderers, but it was a good way to avoid capture by the law, and he made a fair bit of coin while he was at it.

Dirk's crimes eventually caught up with him, however. When he was thirty-three he got captured by an Imperial patrol, having been left behind by his "brothers" when they were caught raiding a merchant caravan. Luckily for Dirk, good archers were in high demand, as there was a greenskin incursion: forest goblins had started raiding, and they needed to be put down before they got mad enough to make a proper army. So, Dirk spent the next two years of his life fighting for an Emperor he didn't give a damn about, fighting monsters when what he wanted was to be back home with his wife and his children.

Eventually, Dirk simply deserted the army, having no intention of staying afield on endless marches. The pay was shit, and he wasn't getting nearly enough money to feed his family, nor was he able to see them. He became an outlaw, and what better place for an outlaw to take refuge than in the company of mercenaries?

So, Dirk has spent the last few years working as a mercenary and sending money back home. The work's more dangerous, but the pay's not half bad. Plus, he gets to choose who he works for.

[Jaredthefox92]

My Hider

Username: Jaredthefox92

Character Name: Heinrich von Fuchs

Race/Species: Human

Gender: Male

Age: 36

Deity: Sigmar

Career (if any) and Skills: Former witch-hunter (excommunicated)

Weapons: Flintlock dueling pistol, Rapier

Attire:
-Witch hunter tunic
-Witch hunter cloak
-Witch hunter hat
-Gun holsters and a sheath for his blade.
-Standard boots and belt

Equipment/Other

-Wooden steaks to be used against vampires.
-Purity seals and Imperial verdict scrolls.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Heinrich is slightly tall, but also thin and well balanced in body proportions. He sports a dark brown beard to complement his auburn brown hair under his hat. Said hat seems of a normal brown color with a single red ornamental feather in it, much common among workers of the Empire. Around him is armor that he still has kept up with and hath smithed from his days as a commissioned Witch Hunter.

Mental Description/Personality: Heinrich is a stern and uncompromising individual who generally holds dear to his own principles. However, said stubbornness is what got him excommunicated in the first place. For better or worse however, Heinrich is a unyielding and motivated man who generally sees his line of work as one of the few things that can deal with some of the more dangerous threats in the Old World. Despite his steadfast attitude he is not without reason. Heinrich can be very pragmatic and diplomatic when need be. However, this is only to achieve a means to an end.

Background/History:

Heinrich was born in Grunberg. His mother was a simple seamstress, whereas his father held Imperial service as a captain in the Empire. At a very early age young Heinrich was taught the value of dedication, persistence, and service. Around his teenage years he entered service in the Empire and began to show promise among his comrades, even into the eyes of the Sigmarate Church who naturally saw his zealous and devoted personality and vigor as useful to the Empire. Eventually he was called upon by the church to serve and did so with the same enthusiasm that was put into him by his parents. He was trained in the ways of fear, suspicion, and to deal with the vile taint of Chaos.

His skills were put to the test, and he indeed did hunt down many a heretic and witch. However, eventually an incident would happen to where he provoked the ire of the Sigmarate. While on a comissioned hunt he refused to kill some peasants who he fount having no trace of corruption within them. This refusal to carry out orders eventually lead to Heinrich being excommunicated from the church. However, Heinerich was certain that heresy wasn't preformed among the villagers and that it maybe have been a trick at play. Nevertheless however, Heinrich was relinquished from his duties as now he serves as a mercenary hunter into the employ of others.

[BangoSkank]

Shel, Halfling Ranger and Cook

Hider

Username: BangoSkank

Character Name: Shel "Surefoot" Applewood

Race/Species: Halfling (Formerly of the Moot)

Gender: Male

Age: 34

Career (if any) and Skills:
While protecting the borders of his home in the Moot as a Fieldwarden Shel spent much time learning to forage for ingredients and to cook traditional Halfling dishes. His culinary interests proved greater than the simple paletes of his people, who never appreciated his genius, leading him to venture out into the world. In the years that followed, working as a Ranger, he learned much about tracking and hunting. When things became difficult he took the opportunity to further research such interests as climbing up cliff sides, camouflaging into his environment, moving stealthily away from danger, hiding until that danger passed, and wishing the baddies would just please go away. His time as a Ranger amidst a Mercenary company taught him to read and write at a basic level in the style of the Empire or of Bretonnians, and more importantly helped him become an accomplished map maker. In battle, he is quite useful at distracting and delaying as well as scouting and fleeing. Shel is quite handy at a distance with either bow or sling, he is passable in close quarters using a dirk as a sword. In a one on one situation with little place to hide, he will likely quickly assist the party by running away from his foe, granting his party an opportunity to ambush that foe as they had most definitely discussed beforehand.

Weapons:
Shel carries a well made but quite basic dirk in a Halfling sized buckled belt he had custom made for him. He likes the way he looks with it, like a proper adventurer, but seldom uses it as he prefers to keep his distance. For that purpose he carries a particularly short shortbow on his back with a small quiver of arrows and often has a sling wrapped around a shoulder or around his quiver. He has a small number of quite heavy metal octagonal projectiles with sharp edges.

Attire:
He wears a light green tunic with a brown leather apron over it and brown pants, held up by a custom made Halfling sized buckled belt with a sheathe for his dirk. He often wears a chef's hat he bestowed upon himself and carries a large (to him) leather backpack with a padded shoulder strap.

Equipment/Other:
Shel has long traveled with a mule, their size being more appropriate for him. He also finds them to be smarter and more nimble than a small horse or pony. He carries in his backpack a small assortment of items useful to him in cooking and map making. It doesn't hold much but the party can generally procure most of what they need when they stop.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Shel has very light green eyes and a mop of curly reddish brown hair. He cannot grow much of a beard, virtually no beard at all in fact, but has voluptuous mutton chops. He is slightly skinny for a halfling, which leads some to question his cooking ability but they simply don't appreciate his genius. He stands at 3'4, right about average for a Halfling.

Mental Description/Personality:
Shel thinks quite highly of himself, believing that he holds himself to quite a high standard, and holds others to that same standard. Despite the realities of the situation he often sees himself as brave and appreciates as much in others. He is very proud of his brave approach to the culinary arts and while he will not hold it against those whose paletes are woefully undeveloped he takes quite a liking to anyone properly appreciative of his abilities. He is a very happy drunk and quite susceptible to flattery.

Background/History:
Shel Applewood led the happy safe life that it typical of his people. Halfling's don't take up much space, enjoying homes that are small and cozy (even for them) rather than vast and expansive, and that coupled with their famous hospitality allows them to get along rather well. As a young man Shel wanted to follow in the footsteps of his parents who ran a famous bed and breakfast, he wanted to become a famous Chef. At the age of 24 he came to realize that he had gone as far as he would as a Chef without leaving the Moot. The chefs of the Moot lacked the bravery needed to step beyond the shallow pool of their knowledge. Even at such a young age he could learn no more from them. They lacked the courage to try new ingredients and to take brave actions. He would not dedicate the next twenty years of his life to recreating recipes created decades ago by amateurish Halflings who had never ventured beyond the Moot. He would not follow in the their footsteps, but rather would blaze a trail of his own.

Always a rather curious Halfling, Shel seized the opportunity when a large mercenary company was passing through his town. He prepared a particularly sumptuous meal for the company and presented it to them himself, explaining what he had made and how he had prepared it. He had hoped the leader, a stern faced man well past his youth, would hem and haw and heap praises upon him, but instead they simply ate their meals quickly and headed to their rooms. He had given up hope when the mercenary groups second in command came into the kitchen and invited him into the company. They had long had stomach issues, but his cooking had cleaned them straight out. How had he known?

They were not what you would call a friendly group, but alongside them Shel was able to explore the world and devise recipes of his own. He had learned of many long lost practices. He had learned of the proper use of many little known spices. As a Halfling he was rather dexterous and among a crew of humans, particularly among a crew of often drunken humans, he learned how to stay out of the way and (remembering again that they were drunk lonely men) how to stay hidden. On his trips out from camp to gather flora and hunt he learned to scout out the road ahead, and in order to better scout he learned to draw maps. With the tiny hands he was given at birth and the attention to detail he had learned as a cook a regular piece of paper was a canvas, he found to his delight that he was able to make maps that were uniquely intricate.

Since then he has always traveled, his skills as a mapmaker and scout overpowering the curious nature of his cooking. In time the peasants he travels with may come to appreciate his brilliant culinary accomplishments. His last party had proved quite resistant to sampling his latest masterpieces and so he set out to find a new company more appreciative of his adventurous cooking.