Brother Tumbo

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I bet we can hack those dudes down.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

After his trial, Keys was imprisoned for three days. On the third day he was released, given back his equipment and horse, and was bound to the Black Shields for seven years. It was a merciful sentence considering many others would have simply been beheaded, and that was not lost on Keys.

In some way, small and hidden away deep in Keys’ boot, he was excited. His first battle he’d fought against Cherwinian scum at Witches’ Crest. After a Broacien victory he’d watched the Cherwin king cut down King Tristan in single combat, in what the Northerners would call ‘holmgang’. Keys never forgave King Tristan for dying, and he never forgave Cherwin for killing him.

As he plodded through the murky forests of his home, avoiding the bogs more by instinct than wisdom, his thin, rose-gray gelding bobbed it’s head to and fro. Occasionally the horse would pause, bending down to nibble at a particularly delicious looking patch of moss. While not the best habit for a horse to have, Keys didn’t mind. The horse was bound to have some hard days coming up.

Atop the horse, Keys yawned. He was a big man, dressed in brown breeches and a dull red doublet. A dinged breastplate glinted from underneath a weathered honey-yellow cloak. He shifted in the saddle, desperately searching for a more comfortable position. The knight had been alone on the road for two days, and while many in Murkran would call that suicide, Keys preferred it that way. Murkran was home, and he was familiar with terrain. He kept an eye out for bandits of course, but no Cherwin dog could make a stealthy approach in these swamps without alerting Keys. It was something about the way they walked. And the way they smelled. And the way they breathed.

The meandering horse huffed as it sloshed though a murky puddle and Keys returned the huff, jerking his head up and scanning the trees. He knew he would be at the encampment by dusk, and considering his pace, maybe even later. So seeing a thin line of smoke ahead of him piqued his interest.

“Whoa, Frisco.” He whispered, pulling up on the reins. Frisco halted and blinked, turning his pale head to Keys. The knight dismounted, quietly splashing into the soft mud below. He tossed the reins over a low branch and pulled his heavy gray sword from the bedroll strapped to his saddle. This sword wasn’t a showy blade that many of the city folk flaunted. This was a tool. A dull gray bastard sword with modest crossguard, leather hilt, and rounded pommel, it was meant for killing, not showing. He dipped past Frisco, pausing to pat the young horse’s head.

“Keep an eye out.”

The horse shook his hand away and gnawed on some hanging moss. Keys picked his way through the marsh slowly, nestling himself against a tree as the woodline cleared ahead. Peeking from behind the tree he saw a wooden palisade that stood in the clearing, and the fortification looked manned. These weren’t the King’s men, certainly, though he knew they must be close. And they couldn't be Cherwinian, Keys would have smelled them.

Outlaws, mostlike. Poor bastards picked a bad spot to squat.

It was only a matter of time until the Black Shields found the bandits. Then they’d either kill them or force them into service, like he had been. He rolled his back to the tree and gave a slight shrug. He’d have to report this activity once he reached the camp. Pushing off the tree, he sneakily began his hike back to his horse.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I'm still in. I'll put up a post ASAP.

The Saxons

Always wanted to be a Saxon.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Keys

“Purses and pints, they’re better when they flow over.”

Keys is an older man with a weatherworn face concealed by a dark beard and a thinning shock of black hair. His eyes are pale blue and emanate disarming warmth. His frame is solid, barrel chested with a bit of healthy weight that stuck to his middle and never came off. A little taller than the average man, Keys would cut an imposing figure if most didn’t know about his soft hands and gentle nature.
He dresses modestly in comfortable, loose clothes of earthy colors. Always pragmatic, they serve a more utilitarian function than a fashionable one. His boots are always cared for, as a soldier’s feet are his best friends.

【Full Name】

Eiham Cyser

【Aliases】

Keys, but he is formally known as Sir Eiham Cyser of Witches’ Crest for those who are not into brevity.

【Age】

32

【Sex】

Male

【Religion】

Monarchism, more by inheritance than faith.

【Family】

Keys has no living relatives he cares for. His father, a wandering beekeeper, won accolades and a knighthood in the siege of Jawai al-Qasar, where he was first through the breach.

【Birthplace】

Witches Crest, Murkran. Keys used to live at Cyser Meadery, a meagre estate compared to many others in the kingdom, the land was awarded to Key’s father, Sir Cyser, after the siege of Jawai al-Qasar. The meadery is located miles from Witches’ Crest. It holds vast tracts of land used for the apiaries and apple orchards that supply most of Broacien with its honey and mead, and apples.

【Societal standing】

Son of a lowborn landed knight, Keys has little standing in high society. He is tolerated in Witches’ Crest for his father’s achievements and the large amount of land he holds. The meadery is a major source of income for Murkran, and Keys is seen more as a rich merchant than a knight or lord.

【Former employment】

As a knight, Keys has military training and tactical knowhow. He also worked as the steward of Witches’ Crest. If he were to be honest, though, he really prefered running his meadery.

【Rank and role】

Knight, man-at-arms.

【Personality】

A modest man with an even temperament, Keys is hard to anger. He’s affable, generous, and mostly loyal. He maintains that the only legitimacy that the king holds is through his marriage to the queen, whom Keys regards with the utmost respect.

【History】

Keys was born to wandering beekeeper and seamstress. His early youth was an experience in poverty that Keys hazily remembers in dreams. When he was five his father, the beekeeper, had become a knight in the siege of Jawai al-Qasar. He was given large amounts of land outside of Witches Crest to tend to, so doing what he knew best, he started an apiary.
Four years of peace were interrupted by Restwaerd’s invasion of Witches’ Crest. Keys father answered his lord’s call and came to the land’s defense. Keys never saw his father again. No one knows where or when he fell, if he ever did at all.
Keys grew up like any other knight’s son, all hard work and discipline, church and school. When he came of age Keys squired for a fat veteran from the castle and earned his own knighthood at the second siege of Witches’ Crest. Keys had sworn the oath to King Tristan himself, he had never been so excited in his young life. The next day he saw his king die. His taste for glory soured over the years, the duel haunting his thoughts and spreading doubt. If a pious man, a royal man, a victorious man, could die like any other, then what was the point of glory?
Queen Ella was crowned the year Keys and his mother built the meadery. While Keys’ father had only sold honey, his mother had been making mead for their personal consumption for years. Together they perfected a recipe for the mead, mixing the honey wine with apple cider. But their experiments earned them ire of the zealous populace of Mukran. By the time bastard of King Tristan came, the meadery was in full swing, and Keys had been to known boast that it was his honey wine the Queen-to-be drank at the on the day of her wedding.
When the desert lords attacked again, Lord Griven of Witches’ Crest brought Keys into his retinue to oversee coins. Not the most glamorous job, but Keys was happier counting coins than counting bodies. He left the meadery to his mother and rode with Lord Griven. The campaign began, and it ended. There were no glorious tales for the steward of Witches’ Crest, just the cheerful plinking of the new king’s face and tally marks..
Keys’ mother died a few years later. She’d gotten sick and did not live long after. Politics at court in Witches’ Crest were getting dangerous as well. Rumors of Keys moving money out of the castle led to an investigation. At the hearing Lord Griven deemed the amount of coin found at the Cyster Estate was in excess of what he should have possessed, therefore concluding the coin was stolen. The meadery and surrounding lands were seized and Keys was put into the Black Shields, at the king’s service for seven years.

【Dreams, short term goals, and fears.】

Keys wants his old life back, and he’s willing to keep his head down for seven years to see if it will. He knows that reinstatement to his estate is unlikely, but dreams are what they are.

【Skills】

Keys is an accomplished business man and a brewer of mead, cider, and beer. He knows how to grease a palm and how to haggle. Lying has always come naturally to him, but the morals the church instilled in him stuck, and he doesn’t abuse his skill.

【Martial prowess】

A trained knight, Keys has moderate skill with a sword, shield, spear, and bow. While many of his peers attend their training yards like they do the chapels, Keys had transformed his training yard into a garden and had swung nothing but a spade there since.

【Combat style】

Admittedly not the best fighter, Keys is cautious, patient, and deliberate. He waits for the opening in an attack, and exploits sloppy swordplay with somewhat less sloppy swordplay. Keys wields a bastard sword and often ignores his shield, opting for two-handed combat.

【Weaponry】

His father’s bastard sword. A weapon meant for functionality over show, it is of a dull luster and kept in fine condition.

【Armor】

Keys was trained in the use of heavy armors and shields. His armor is mostly comprised of ringmail with a beaten breastplate and a visored helm.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I've got a sheet about 80% complete. It should hopefully be finished by tonight.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Quite interested.

Chase the Night: A Cyberpunk Story

Also interested. Gonna check out the OOC.

The Guardians of Dara: Fantasy City Governing

I'm into that. A tiny dude and an trippy sensei set out to do some magic. It's practically fantasy Rick and Morty.

The Guardians of Dara: Fantasy City Governing

Alaric took the backhanded compliment from Landar with an abrupt exhalation of acrid smoke, but it was good to know that at least someone here showed support for his research, despite their now decade old squabble. Perhaps the old dog wasn’t quite as intolerable as he’d once been. His attention was drawn away by Ephraim’s outburst.

Alaric had a very distinct understanding of Ephraim’s dangerousness. The elf was well disciplined and deadly with his dual swords. Still, Ephraim had reacted like a lazy fish sucking up a baited hook. It seemed he acted from his heart rather his head and Elves were notoriously passionate creatures, after all. Alaric popped the pipe stem from his mouth and performed a mock battle from his chair, parrying and thrusting across the table toward his adversary with the smoking instrument. He was scared in Melazus, and it would not do to be scared at the first meeting of the former heroes. Though it also would not do to provoke a killer, and his good sense returned as Alaric bit down on the pipe stem.

Leytan spoke up, addressing the issue of his manpower. Alaric had very little interest in these matters. Between the monks, the mercenaries, the vigilantes, and the damned witch hunters, Alaric was quite positive that the streets were safe. At least for him, Halflings didn’t garner much interest on the street and evasion was one of his specialties.

With witch hunters on his mind Alaric addressed Ephraim. “There really is no need for violence, Ephraim. I won’t be joining pacts with demons, I’m simply using modern technology to pick up traces of the esoteric elements between the planes. If a creature not of this world comes into it, traces of the aether must remain. By finding these clues we can learn more about the creatures and spells that populated this room.” He proposed.