Hygswitch — Roleplayer Guild

Name: Sir Ramfrey Hansard

Age: 47

Gender: Male

Position: Knight, Legendary Hero

Coat of Arms:


Personality: Sir Ramfrey knows how to act the part of the legendary knight he is famed to be, when in public. He is very well mannered and courteous to women, knows how to talk well and humor others with stories of his adventures. If one where to pay attention though, a kind of detachment would become apparent in his gaze, and something would seem lacking in his smiles.
 In private and around those he trusts this outer sheen further wears down and the brooding, cynical and ultimately deeply suffering man he is shows himself. He may even seem selfish and petty. Further down this too is only something he tells himself, because the reason he suffers as much is that in fact he is deeply thoughtful and caring. While being pessimistic he also is very much willing to do the right thing. Towards himself he often rationalizes it in a way that his motivation seems selfish. 

Appearance: Sir Ramfrey is a very tall man, standing a head taller than most people. He has a rather slim wiry frame, but is extremely well trained and muscular nonetheless, and walks with a straight and confident posture. His brow is often furrowed by a stern frown, accentuated by his greying dark hair and steel blue eyes. His voice is deep and rough, and is known to make women swoon over him.

When in town he rarely wears his plate armor, which is made of blackened steel plate. Despite it being well cared for it shows unmistakable signs of years of use. The only decor is the representation of his coat of arms, three small daggers worked onto the plate above his heart.
 Mostly he will be seen in a dark brown leather doublet and leather pants, without any signs or marks on it. At court on the other hand his clothing is more befitting for a noble man, but significantly unfashionable, a bit worn and devoid of any frilly decoration. 

Most striking to his gear is his famed dwarven steel bastardsword ‘Lady Gwynneth’. Between its blades double fuller can be read a fine inscription: “Call me Gwynneth, of the mountain peoples steel.” On the other side followed by “Wield me true and I shall slay each foe” Befitting to his coat of arms and name, he also carries identical triplet daggers; One in a sheath in the small of his back, one on his right shank and one normally at his belt. 

Background: 
House Hansard of Daggerkeep is a very low noble house indeed. The ancestral home, a drafty motte-and-bailey keep watching over a small market town and a bridge spanning a insignificant tributary river, did not entail any kind of comfort associated with the life of nobles. Some of the free yeomans around had farmhouses that entailed more wealth and were more comfortable homes. Despite this lack of noble comforts growing up entailed all of the chores of a young lordling for Ramfrey. 
He learned reading and counting and also manners by his mother and under the watchful eyes of his father. The old man had a rather bad opinion of all of his superfluous sons after the firstborn, useless mouths to feed they where to him.  
Being the third son, it was very clear that Ramfrey had no prospects of ever holding any land of his own, at least not any land of his fathers. Thus father saw to it to find a knight of some renown to take young Ramfrey as his page at the age of six, nearly a year earlier than was customary. Young Ramfrey was always a long grown and lanky child and thus deemed ready for these chores. 

Sir Berdig Morgan was a far more kindly man than his father, and as he was free to roam the land he, companioned by Ramfrey, two other pages and a squire did just that. The bearded knight taught all of them the basics of knighthood, and attended a number of tourneys with the boys. It would proof to be a good few years.
 Which abruptly ended when war came upon the land, about a year after he had been made a squire. Sir Berdig became one of the sworn swords in service to house Neptune. Between the five dozen of squires and pages Ramfrey was relatively well liked, if not taken entirely seriously. After a heavy growth spurt his voice had broken heavily and undulated between a very deep murmur and a squeaky boys voice. His new gangly arms made him look as if he was all elbows and suddenly he was a lot worse at sword training, always underestimating his own reach.
 Nonetheless as the war wore on the older and better trained squires where equipped and would fight under the command of their knights in the heavy cavalry. In the first battles Ramfreys lack in ability with the lance proved negligible. They often just rounded up fleeing enemies, or plowed through poorly equipped infantry from the flank. Forgotten where the golden days of tourneys and making merry; the days Sir Berdig told stories of daring do and adventure. Adventure itself was dark and gory and bleak. And it wasn’t honourable.

Winter came and both sides gathered their armies around them. Soon they converged on each other.
Ramfrey was looking over the field before them. Soft snow fell onto the mud, and the horses hot breath hung in the air before them. Black was the entire horizon on the valleys far side. Banners flapping in the wind. Right opposite them on the enemies right flank stood cavalry of similar might. The thought of opposing an evenly matched enemy was exhilarating and frightening. Sir Berdig smiled at his squire shortly and patted his shoulder, a weak smile under the greying beard. Then their pages handed them their helmets and lances. There was no sign of Sir Berdig being nervous as he looked at him, but then he saw how the man was fingering his swords pommel. 
He gulped. 
Time seemed to stand still.
A weak breeze stirred the lazily falling snowflakes to jump horizontaly through his field of vision. 
Then the call of the warhorns stirred them. First slowly then gaining speed they started galloping down into the valley. Only after a little time did Ramfrey catch sight of the opposing Riders doing the same. Madly they raced towards them. Horse breath steaming, mud and snow flying around them. 
Faster ever faster. 
Nearer ever nearer. 
It came the moment to lower the lances, they could now clearly see the enemies coats of arms upon their surcoats. Then everything erupted into chaos.
The breathtaking forceful punch against his shoulder when his Lance made contact. Empaling his enemy, but unhorsing himself. Heavily he fell to the ground. Around him a maelstrom of bodies collided as he struggled to his feet. Screaming, colliding, guts and blood erupting through the air. A hoof punching into the mud where his head had been mere second earlier. Drawing his sword, nothing special one of the utilitarian blades flowing from the forges by the tens of dozens these days. 
Soon no upright horses where around anymore, gone, slaughtered, or killed, or in pursuit. But still the men fought and clashed. He saw John the older squire. He was in trouble, so Ramfrey rushed to him, deflecting a few blows. Still he reached him only when the older man fell. Clashing, swords clanking against his armor. Then the blood of the swords wielder on his face. Sir Berdig, at his side all of a sudden, screaming something at the top of his lungs, he nodded dumbfounded. The noise of the battle made it impossible to hear. On foot he and Sir Berdig and a few other knights and pages ran on, fighting, running, fighting. Men falling like flies. It was impossible to know who was winning, but then the sky darkened.
 Someone screamed. 
The words seemed so far away. “Volley!” Some let themselves fall to the ground curling up, hid behind shields if they had any, behind comrades if they where craven. Ramfrey just stood there. He felt the punches of the arrows as if through cotton. He looked down. Three had embedded themselves deep in his breastplate, one in his shoulder. Blood everywhere, was it his? He fell to his back. His head rolling to the side. Sir Berdig and the knighs all lying their, looking like porkupines, with all the arrows sticking out. 
Blinking.
It felt all so far away.
The noise. 
The maelstrom.
Soft snow falling in his eyes as he looked up.
Had he lost his helmet?
Time passed, and the sound of slaughter diminished, as the sky darkened slowly getting bluer. Why didn’t he loose conscience? Who had won? Oh the arrow in his shoulder hurt so bad; the three in his armor however curiously didn’t. They didn’t bleed as he poked at them. He chuckled bitterly. His bloody funnel chest and the thicker padding he wore due to it had saved his life. He slowly crawled over to Sir Berdig, leaning against the man with his shoulder. He said nothing. Only stared at the by now blue face and open eyes. Still there where the lines around this mans eyes making him recall the cheerful tourney knight. He shook his head feeling hollow, feeling like retching. Not from the smell of blood and guts but from the loss. Tears fell. And he wiped them away angrily, closing the mans eyes. He heard noises behind the pile of flesh made from man and beast. 
And pulled himself more upright to look over it. A group of soldiers in the enemies colours was milling about, poking at corpses with their weapons, despite one limping they conversed, Horses waiting a few steps off. They where highborn. Maybe even Lords. He let himself sink back down. Should he be governed by fear? Or do something? His eyes fell onto the blade in Sir Berdigs hand. Words gleamed red with blood out of shining metal. ‘Wield me ...’ He took it reading on. “Wield me true and I shall slay each foe.” He looked up listening. The men where still there. Apart from his shoulder and the bruises from falling and who knows hat he felt fair enougth. He turned the long sword in his hands. “Lady Gwynneth.” He mumbled. “You shall avenge your master.” He pulled himself upright. Blood still dripping from him. 

***

On the other side of the pile the eyes of one of the soldiers widened. A true giant rose from the dead. Arrows sticking out of him, an abysmal gleam to his eyes. Raspy breath. And the long blade. It shuffled towards him. He pointed shaking heavily not finding a way to force breath through his throat to speak, he couldn’t warn his Lord. Blood splattered on his face as both of his comrades, both Lords XXX and XXX where decapitated from behind in a two handed swipe. Blood spilled upon him as he fell to his back crawling backwards, stammering, pleading. The undead figure said nothing as it approached breath hanging as clouds in the air. He saw the elegant blade. Gleaming, menacing. The figure knelt and collected both heads, “For the Lady Gwynneth.” His very deep voice rasped.

***

Even though this battle had been seen as a victory at first, the tides for XXX turned. Two of the bannermen never returned from the battlefield, even though the enemies host had withdrawn hours earlier. Soon rumors and murmurs started to undercut the moral of the troops. A giant had risen from the dead. Wielding a magic blade. Some said it was a famed blade of dwarven steel. It did not matter. The war effort soon dwindled and ended with bitter losses for both sides, with no one gaining much and loosing dearly.

***

Ramfrey returned as one of three men left standing from the Heavy Horse. With the heads of two Lords no less. Soon he was knighted, and never was he mocked again. He trained hard and harder everyday, and despite his sinister rise to knighthood was well liked as he made a point of exhibiting gallant and virtuous attitudes at all times.
At night he would often lie awake. Staring at old Sir Berdig in his minds eye.

Skills and traits:
Swordsman – Master {Sir Ramfrey did already have a knack for Blades to begin with, but decades of training and fight have made him one of the very best swordmen to live. Lady Gwynneth falling into his hands at such a young age might have further helped this. It is nearly unheard of for someone coming into possession of a blade of true dwarven steel as young as him.)

Knifefigher – Expert {Wielding daggers and knives as side weapons is not unheard of for knights, but Sir Ramfrey, perhaps spurred by his lives experience, or by his last name, is scarily deadly at wielding daggers in their own right. A skill together with his habit to carry up to three daggers has at times saved his very life.)

Horseman – Expert {Being a rider is part of the job description for knights and Ramfrey is an experienced one, with experience entailing riding in any form of clothes or armour for many reasons and with many different weapons. Jousting though is not his strongest suit when it comes to this. He has ridden in tourneys over the years but he never got as good as old Sir Berdin at it.)

Tactician - Expert {No one spends decades a knight without gaining some basic knowledge of tactics. Even more so when, like Sir Ramfrey, one has at times lead men into battle.)

Archery – Adept {Even though a knight, Sir Ramfrey is pragmatical in his choice of weapon, and along the way started to learn archery. He is not the best archer around but is servicably proficient.}

Negotiator - Adept {Years of upholding an honourable facade, and suffering from a slight self detached attitude, have left Remfrey knowledgable when it comes to thinking about thinking, and also understanding others motivations. Thus he has become skilled at using words and negotiation.)

Mentor - Appentice {Having never taken in more than one squire or Page at a time, Sir Ramfrey is not the greatest of teachers or educators. Still has he seen 2 of his rise to knighthood themselves.)

Strategist - Novice {Despite having, over the years as a sworn sword, tread and worked directly with lords and marshals leading entire warhosts, Sir Ramfrey never managed to get a good grasp at going beyond tactics .)

Flaws: 
Haunted: To this very day Ramfrey suffers from bad dreams of the battle he won and was knighted for. Sometimes he hallucinates or dreams of his old sire, the knight Daron the Daring. He somehow is rather used to it by now, but it still makes him anxious and moody after it happens.
Ravenous Appetites: Perhaps due to his troubling Past Ramfrey tends to drink and smoke without abandon. He also is not averse to the beautiful gender. A urge he often satisfies with common womenfolk, but due to his rough charm, and reputation as a nearly legendary hero, so far never with a professional.
Cynical: Even if he doesn’t show it too much, and despite his excellent reputation as a heroic model knight, he is very cynical about knighthood, his life and maybe the world in general.
Weak Joints and Tissue: Perhaps due to the sometimes a bit close relationship between ancestors typical even for lower nobility Sir Ramfrey suffers from a weakness of his connective tissue. His good training counteracts this a bit, but after long days his joints and especially his knees pain him greatly. Also due to this heriditary affliction he has a slight funnel chest, though this is only visible in the nude, as his quite well trained pecs make it nearly invisible under clothing.
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