NickTrano — Roleplayer Guild

I think this is everything. I have a few extra sections because I started writing before I saw the template. As always, PM me if there's anything you think needs changing/fixing, or if you just want to tell me I'm awesome. I live for compliments, after all. 

Name: Varrick Tuldar

Age: 24

Gender: Male

Species: Human

Physical Attributes: Tall and muscular, but no brute. Varrick has swordsman's arms, and calloused hands. The most remarkable thing is, his scars are few and far between - a testament to his skill with a blade. The poise and balance with which he carries himself could perhaps be compared to that of a dancer... but it would be more accurate to say he is like a lion clothed in the flesh of a man.

He has the red hair of House Tuldar, and the grey eyes of his mother's family. He keeps his hair short, and his face clean shaven.

Personality: Varrick is a deadly warrior, and he knows it. A life lived without fear has engendered a forceful personality in him. He speaks his mind, and expects others to listen. He is quick to anger, and quick to forgive. That said, he is not unfair. He has not forgotten the kindness Brand showed him all those years ago, and with the old ranger's mentoring he has grown into a fine man. Noble by birth, Varrick exemplifies the qualities of a true knight - qualities that are in short supply since King Harold's purge.

Despite those positive qualities, Varrick's childhood has left him with a reflexive mistrust of others. He finds himself in a state of inner war between the side of him raised by Brand - which always wants to find the good in people - and the side of him that survived the culling of his family. 

History: Varrick Tuldar was born into privilege and nobility; but he was also born in its dying years. His father, Gerold Tuldar, was not a kind man. His cruelty was known throughout the kingdom, in fact - used as a story to scare recalcitrant serfs into submission. Rarely a day went by in House Tuldar's vast holdings on which a villager was not strung up for some perceived slight or another.

Thus, it should come as no surprise that the people rose up. Gerold was a prideful lord, and he refused to request aid from the king. Thinking he could crush the rebellion himself, he called up his banners. But the fact was, Lord Gerold had few friends. His knights and soldiers sheathed their swords and watched as the mob rushed onwards, stepping aside and letting them pass.

They burned the Tuldar manor to the ground - raping Varrick's mother and sisters, and stringing Lord Gerold up in much the same way that he had done to so many of them. By the time the sun sent crimson streaks across the sky in its journey towards the horizon, blood soaked the ashen remains of everything Varrick had ever known.

Luckily for him, Varrick had been out on a ride when the villagers came. He had always been an affable child - and while the majority of the house's staff had no problem letting the Lord reap what he had sown, few wished to kill the boy. Sir Jonthen of the Hills - an old knight turned trainer of young Lords - spirited him away, having stolen Lord Gerold's sword for the boy to keep as a memento, and a reasonable sack of gold for an inheritance.

Sir Jonthen had known Brand of the Nightwood a long time, having fought beside him in their youth. Brand had been there when Jonthen earned his knighthood, during the battle of the Milendon Hils. He knew Brand had never approved of his service to the mad Lord Gerold, but he also knew that the old ranger had a history of taking in strays and raising them right.

Sir Jonthen wasn't wrong. It took a few weeks, and many leagues, but he reached the Nightwood with Varrick in tow. Brand took the child without much convincing, but having acquiesced to one wish: Train the boy to be a knight. Sir Jonthen didn't, of course, tell Brand that that was all he could teach him.

Varrick was barely nine summers old when Brand took him in. He would spend nearly that many years again in the forest learning from the ranger, before he left to take his own place in the world. 

Equipment:

Bastard Sword: Varrick uses the bastard sword of his father to deadly effect. Its old name has been lost to time, and he has yet to pick a new one for it. It has a pattern of brambles etched into the spine of the blade, running all the way up to the point.
Wooden Kite Shield: When necessary, Varrick makes use of a kite shield painted in the white and gray of his destroyed House.
Longbow: While nowhere near as skilled with the bow as some of his siblings, Varrick is not incapable. He primarily uses needle bodkin arrows - better for thinning out armored foes.
Armor: Varrick wears a lightweight mixture of plate and leather. He is better protected than a typical brigand or man-at-arms, but does not have the luxury of near-imperviousness enjoyed by a fully armored knight. He chooses this armor primarily for the freedom of motion it provides him.  Varrick's left arm is sheathed in heavy steel, but on his sword hand he only wears a steel gauntlet and bracer, relying on leather for the rest. His legs are similarly armored, with an emphasis on a heavy shield-side and a light sword-side. His breastplate is articulated steel.
Helmet: Varrick's helmet is a relatively standard Klappvisier, albeit with enlarged eye holes.
Horse: Varrick's steed is named Kicker. He's a full-blooded war horse, weighing nearly a ton. In battle, he is protected by heavy barding, with a layer of caprison in the white and gray of House Tuldar.
Knife: Varrick wears a knife in his boot. Primarily a tool, it can also be used as a backup weapon if necessary.
Clothing: Outside of immediate danger, Varrick is often seen in standard woolen garb - although better cut. That said, the roads are no longer safe.
Cloak: Varrick wears a cloak dyed in a mottled array of greens and browns, to better allow him to blend in the forests.

Fighting style: Varrick is strong, and quick, and he knows it. In a fight, he typically makes it his goal to beat his opponent down before they can learn enough about his fighting style to counter it. His father's sword is well made, and he isn't afraid to chip his opponents' blades to unusability with it. As well, he makes heavy use of shield bashing, throwing his opponents to the ground or knocking them off balance before finishing them with a deadly thrust.

This is not to say that Varrick is an unaccomplished duelist. He has been regularly described as an artist with the sword - albeit relying more on raw talent and less on training. His aggressive opening moves are a test that one must pass in order to witness and fall before his true skill.

Writing Sample:

The Queen's Box was a tavern in one of the rougher parts of Meyersport. The sign displayed a crowned woman in a rather... suggestive pose. Varrick did not intend to stay there long. A merchant had offered him a sizable purse to track down the man who'd raped his daughter, and Varrick was enjoying his victory drink. He'd turned down the money.

The peaceful cacophony of the place was such that Varrick didn't hear the door open, momentarily lost in thought. But the next words were unmistakable. "Baron William's been put on the cross!" The messenger's shout cut through the din of clanking glasses and shouting voices that normally filled the tavern, and put a stop to all of it. 

Varrick was the first one to recover. He let out a low whistle, and stood up just as the crowd began to form around the messenger. Never sit with your back to the door, Brand had taught him. Watch the room. Keep an eye on the twitchy ones. A few coins clattered to the table before he made for the door. 

There was a group of four soldiers sitting in the opposite corner, with drinks they weren't drinking. Varrick discreetly eyed them as he made his way out. When he reached the door, he heard a telltale clinking of metal on metal.

Baron William had been a good man. Not one Varrick had ever met, but everything he'd heard put the Baron as the exact opposite of Varrick's own father. He could have used what Brand had taught him, and made himself disappear into the city streets -  but his blood was up.

"Sir! Stop right there!" Varrick slowly turned around and lowered his hood. He'd left his helmet at the inn. There were four of them, maybe three yards away. The leader of the group - not a knight, but what looked to be an older corporal or maybe a sergeant - was the one who spoke. "You are to be taken to the capital. King's orders." The sergeant waved a paper he probably couldn't even read.

Varrick smirked. He didn't need to dignify them with a response.

"Last chance, Lord Tuldar." The lines on the sergeant's face tightened as he gripped the hilt of his sword. They were in a diamond formation.

Varrick knew what was about to happen, and he was faster. He drew and cut in one smooth motion, spraying the sergeant's life blood across his fellows as the man desperately clutched at the ruins of his throat. The other three soldiers started clumsily grabbing for their own weapons - heavy maces tied at their belts. 

Varrick didn't give them the chance. Grabbing one by the front of his brigandine, he threw him into his friend, sending them sprawling. By the time Varrick brought his blade around to swing at the fourth, the man had brought his mace up to block.

Redirecting the strike, Varrick drew it down the shaft of the mace, slicing the soldier's fingers off at the knuckles. Not wanting to waste any more time, he redirected his focus to the other two, who had recovered and drawn their own maces.

Varrick let the fight slow for a moment, holding his blade in a guard as the sergeant convulsed on the ground and the other soldier wept, clutching his ruined right hand. In a level voice that belied his thumping heart, he spoke to them. "You two don't have to die tonight. Run, tell your master what happened here."

One of them was ready to do just that, but the other held his ground. "Sir knight, you know what will happen to us if we do that." King Harold's army was powered by fear, not respect.

Varrick nodded. "Very well, then." He flourished his sword in a salute, before falling into a guard. "It will be an honor to take your lives."

The two charged him, swinging their maces as hard as they could. It was clumsy; sloppy. Varrick's blade flicked out, taking one of their hands at the wrist. He backed away to dodge the other's blow, and then punched him in the face with his gauntleted hand before the soldier could recover.

The man fell to the ground, where he soon found Varrick's sword in his heart. The other was desperately scrabbling for his dagger with his remaining hand and muttering muffled curses when a second slash sent his guts spilling to the ground, where he joined them soon after. The battle ended, Varrick looked over the mess he'd made. Three dead, one on his knees weeping for his ruined hand.

Varrick wiped his blade on the sergeant's cloak before sheathing it. He stopped by the last remaining soldier, laying a hand on his shoulder as he wept. "I'm sorry it had to be this way," he said, not entirely sure if he truly meant it, and then he went on his way.

It was late at night, and he feared for nothing as he walked through the streets, whistling a tune. He would make for the Nightwood. If soldiers were after him, they were likely after all of Brand's crew of misfit children.

Yes, And... (I hope this is what you were looking for).

Crack! Varrick felt himself hit the dirt again. Brand had promised old Sir Jonthen that he'd teach Varrick the ways of a knight. Of course, it had turned out that a lot of that meant beating the hell out of him with sticks. 

"You're getting better, Varrick." The ranger was already leaning against a tree, watching the boy struggle to his feet. "Give yourself another decade and maybe you'll have a chance."

"You've been beating me for years already, Brand." Varrick winced and favored the leg Brand had just knocked out from under him. "I don't think you have that many left."

Brabd smiled, and said, "Maybe I don't." He stood back up from the tree and tossed the stick away. "But until you stop fighting so Gods damned honorable, I'll beat you every time."

It was true. Varrick had long since learned to match Brand blow for blow - and yet the old man always had a trick up his sleeve. Guiding Varrick into poison ivy patches, throwing dirt in his face - even dropping a live snake on him once - every time Varrick thought he had the old man beat, it all came crashing down.

Varrick stepped up beside the old ranger, limping slightly. "What are we going to do now, Brand?"

The ranger looked off into the woods. "What we came out here for. Your brothers and sisters are hungry."

Varrick nodded as the ranger motioned to start walking, picking up his pack as he did so. They traveled through the forest in silence for a while, eventually finding the tracks of a mob of deer. It was when Brand kneeled down to check a suspicious depression in the dirt that Varrick got his idea.

Drawing back with the stick he'd re-purposed for walking since their earlier sparring match, Varrick smacked Brand across the back with it. "I win!" The boy shouted, and then started laughing.

For his part, Brand didn't get angry although the swipe must have stung. He joined the young lord in his laughter. "What about honor, boy?"

"Where's the honor in whipping a lord with sticks day in and day out anyways, old man?" Varrick responded, the mirth not yet gone from his voice.

"Fair enough," the old man said. "Look down."

Varrick had been too busy reveling in his victory to notice that the ranger had looped a bit of rope around his foot. He looked up to see the ranger's grinning face, before he felt the yank that sent him sprawling to the ground.

@HeySeuss
NickTrano Member

The Hero You Deserve

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts
