Name: "Wolfsbane"
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Position and Trade: Common-Born, Sellsword/Captain of the Mountainvault company
Appearance: Wolfsbane's features are commonly obscured by his leather vestments, hood and helm. It is apparent, however, that said man stands somewhere over six feet, and his build is that of a warrior, albeit not too bulky, apparently emphasizing agility and endurance. His shoulders are broad, and his limbs long and sturdy, making him quite imposing. Behind the helm lies a face aged beyond its' years, with thick, sunken features and a pale complexion, starkly contrasted by large dark brown eyes and a scruffy stubble. Even though it is not the most friendly of visages, it does not inspire distrust. A full head of black, messy hair parted to the left reaches somewhere above his shoulders.
Wolfsbane's armor is comprised primarily of tough, padded leather and takes a robe-like form, hanging few inches above ground. An additional, hooded leather vest is worn above it, the lower tip if its' v-like shape extending as far as Woflsbane's waist. A large black belt with an iron buckle, leather gloves studded at the knuckles and knee-high boots reinforced with steel plates complete the set. The armor is predominantly deep red, not unlike the color of damp forest soil, with faded black details. Finally, a steel helm lies behind his cloak, obscuring his face. It is quite featureless save for five vertical slits near the mouth, and a rectangular plate held in place by numerous bolts, that starts at the back of the helm and ends between its' two seperate eye openings.
Personality/Vices/Boons: Personality: Wolfsbane is a rather calm and collected individual, if not a tad cold. He usually does not speak too much, preferring to carefully consider his words and actions. That being said he is by no means aggressive or uncivil, even though his is quite cautious and not very trusting towards strangers. That changes, however, once he deems someone a friend. He is an extremely loyal companion, and will try his best to aid those he has grown fond of. His morals, however are not pristine. He is not above cheating and lying at those he does not particularly care for, and, due to his line of work, is quite used to killing. Furthermore, he is vindictive, and will not hesitate retaliating at attempts to harm him, even if such attempts come from otherwise legal authority. Lastly, he is easily disillusioned and is quick to dismiss individuals, even those he considers close, if he realizes that they have ill intent.
Vices/Boons:
Tavern Dweller: There are two real homes for every mercenary. The battlefield, and the inn. Even though he does not actively crave it, Wolfsbane will drink massive amounts of alcohol in times of relaxation.
Vice: He can engage in tavern brawls if provoked, and may upset certain teammates with his numerous antics. Depending on his mood, he may sink into temporary depression or become less restrained.
Boon: Wolfsbane is at his heartiest under an inn's roof and in front of a mug of ale. He may lift not only his own spirit but that of his teammates, as he becomes more open and less somber.
Bonus Boon! Wolfsbane has learnt to prepare certain simple, yet nutritious foods and carve meat. Jerky, stew, smoked fish, dried vegetables, and his favorite, the legendary meatbread.
Nerves of steel: Be it in the heat of combat, in the embrace of a strong drink, or in the clutches of fear, Wolfsbane will never lose his calm or his self-restraint.
Boon: Having and odd form of self-discipline, Wolfsbane will retain his wits and act in a logical fashion even in extreme emotional states. That is not to say that he will be completely unphased. In a situation of great fear, for instance, instead of dropping his weapons and running for dear life, or quivering in a corner, he would try to escape with his companions as quickly and safely as possible.
Vice/Boon: There exists a vital flaw in his restraint, however. When faced with overwhelming anger, Wolfsbane may snap and enter a fit of unbridled, barely directed fury. That may be rather taxing for both his companions and himself, if there is nothing around to beat into a pulp. If there are enemies around, they will experience a profound thrashing.
Vice: If angered by an otherwise non physically hostile person, be it companion or other, his frustration will linger, and possibly add up, eventually leading to outbursts.
Man with a Plan: For some strange reason, Wolfsbane seems to know quite a lot about certain scholarly matters.
Boon: When it comes to history, the properties of certain raw materials, folklore, and the past magical practices, his knowledge, although unofficial, and largely empirical, rivals that of a scholar.
Vice: His knowledge of magical history may drive law-abiding characters to distrust him, or worse.
What kind of Person Kills for a Living? : Mercenaries are not the most well-liked bunch. It may have something to do with them not having a stable allegiance, or the fact that they kill for money.
Vice: Wolfsbane's occupation may drive people with certain beliefs to distrust him, or to be aggressive towards him. The fact that he once fought for the Valadean Empire against the northern barbarians, and that he actively defends both his mercenary company and his involvement in the war efforts of the Empire, if provoked, may worsen the situation.
Terrible Secret: A troubled blank look at the horizon, a sudden moment of silence. It may not be apparent, but at times, it seems that Wolfsbane is hiding something.
History: Born in a blacksmith father's and a herbalist mother's household in some nondescript village, the boy that came to be known as Wolfsbane had but two choices. Follow the family craft, or venture out on his own in an attempt to carve a future for himself. His lust for adventure and familiarity with blades from an early age left him a single choice. Join the local militia, initially serving as an errand boy. By the time he was seventeen, he had slain his first brigand. Pleased at first, he became weary with the dull processes of the command and the uneventful, chore-like nature of the army. Whenever an opportunity for combat arose, however, he was arguably the most eager to join in battle, making his skill grow. Eventually, that caught the attention of a headhunter, part of a notorious and secretive mercenary company known as the Mountainvault.
The Mountainvaults were by no means an ordinary mercenary band. Their base of operations was unknown, and seemingly, the only way of reaching them was through an inn with a similar name that attracted all sorts of sellswords, The Vault in the Mountain. Joining was not a simple task either, as the band would carefully offer select individuals to join, and even then, they would need to pass through an indefinitely long period serving as a second-rate mercenary before being inducted in the inner circles, and finally gaining access to their secret lair.
What Wolfsbane later came to know, is that the waiting period was more of a test of character than skill. Many soldiers of fortune were completely amoral, easy to betray their own if the need arose, and motivated by money alone. The Mountainvault differed, preferring to take on causes that fit it's members moral values. Not to say that they were idealistic, but they most certainly had certain standards. After a few months of serving as a blade for hire, he was deemed fit for entering. A cave system somewhere in the foothills of Skytear Mountain, it's massive entrance located behind a majestic waterfall served as their barracks. Passing through it's massive hidden gates was one of young Wolfsbane's greatest experiences.
After numerous assignments spread across the Star Kingdom, the young mercenary experienced his first real call to arms. The otherwise unworthy to be mentioned barbarian skirmishes across the Valadean Empires' northern borders had began to culminate into full-blown war efforts, and the Empire, trapped under its' own corruption, could barely handle the situation. The Mountainvault was amongst a great number elite mercenary groups from around the known world that had been contacted in order to provide support for its' main army. As the purpose was primarily that of security and the protection of northern provinces, the Mountainvault gladly agreed.
The young mercenary naturally followed his company even though still a neophyte, to their appointed guarding territory in the valley known as Harrow Dale. Directly contrary to what officials believed, a barbaric invasion larger than what was expected took place without so much as a warning, and victory, albeit a Pyrrhic one, was only achieved through the timely release of messenger pigeons and the intervention of Imperial cavalry. Many of the mercenaries, including Wolfsbane, however, were captured and transported further within enemy territory. Only with the persistent tracking of the remaining mercenaries were the surviving prisoners released. In the chaos of ensuing combat in what was later revealed to be a barbarian cemetery, Wolfsbane came into posession of a peculiar blade seemingly placed as an offering upon one of the barbarian graves.
After returning to Reyrweald with the remnants of his fighting force, Wolfsbane served in countless expeditions, both domestic and international, achieving the rank of Captain. In recent years, he has been given the opportunity to assume the privileges of a Sellsword-Captain, a subdivision reserved for trusted long-time members, that allowed it's holder to withdraw from compulsory duty and act as a semi-independent blade for hire, only returning to active officer responsibilities for any expeditions he wished to partake in. Gladly accepting it, he now wanders the Kingdom and the world at large in an inexplicable quest to collect knowledge regarding occult matters and folklore from the forgotten parts of the earth.
Weapons/Equipment/Supplies: Armor: Offering protection against piercing and slashing, as well as great mobility and resistance against the elements, it is obvious why Wolfsbane is rarely seen without his armor.
Bastard Sword: A medium to long blade, this weapon is extremely well crafted, yet it does not seem to be of Star Kingdom make, or Valadean, for that matter. Wolfsbane seems very protective towards it.
Mountainvault Brooch: A solid, circular brooch, with the image of a gate on a mountainside and the words "Nothing is Set in Stone" carved around it.
Sack: Inside an over-the shoulder traveler's sack, made from thick waterproof fabric, Wolfsbane keeps several essentials, such as:
- A sturdy rope for all kinds of uses.
- A sharpened survival knife.
- String and needle for sewing.
- Flint and steel.
- Spare, simple clothes.
- A leather sleeping roll.
- A lantern that can be both held or hung, and an oil canister.
- A herb pouch, containing various plants that have varrying uses, from disinfectants to medicine.
- Meatbread rations. Up until he dropped one half of them and ate the other.
The Contract: "Were you truly there? In Harrow Dale?" Asked the one closest to Wolfsbane, wide-eyed and in awe. They had met only for a few hours, but theirs was a hearty bunch, and he was far from familiar grounds.
"Aye, 'till the battle's bitter end. Stuck a good few of those north'ners. My only regret was not taking their ears!" He bashed the table, shaking the numerous flagons on it and laughed a thunderous laugh. The patrons surrounding it joined in, as they brought their mugs together and guzzled their contents down. As they talked amongst themselves, the man's smile faded slowly and he fell silent. The question had once again stirred memories and an otherwise pleasant moment was shattered. Harrow Dale. Eleven years ago. The Mountainvault was contacted through the Valadean embassy. The newfound barbarian threat became greater each passing day. Raids became bigger and more frequent, and the northern border provinces were razed and sacked repeatedly. Of course, such an assignment was accepted. It was the Mauntainvault way, after all. It was no petty squabble between nobles, no ambiguously ethical expedition. It was simple. The strong preyed on the weak, and the weak needed someone to stand between the two. And so they went.
Oh how excited he was. His first grand battle. Sure, clearing bandit forts was one thing, but this was something else. This was war. They were to provide rear support, prevent any raiding clusters from passing behind their lines and flanking the main force. Seemed like something had organised the stray barbarian Glacier Lords to unite their efforts, improving their tactics in the process. Random raids turned into precise attacks aimed at weak points and less-guarded areas. That, paired with the sheer speed of the barbarian crafts, and their ability to sail even shallow rivers had all but devastated the Valadean Northern Reaches. Harrow Dale was one of these sensitive spots. Situated just outside the borders, it was near the sea and away from major invasion points, and thus provided an excellent and rather easy to pass to less protected cities that lay beyond.
After a grueling week-long journey by foot and sea, they arrived at the camp prepared for them. Wooden fortifications and an officer with a minuscule force greeted them. They said that only single ships worth of men would reach land, and battle was rarely joined. Scouting parties. Nothing more. The first few weeks were uneventful indeed. Until their numbers thickened. At times, they would see their fur-clad forms, barely recognizable due to the distance, simply standing there. They seemed to be waiting for something. The imperial unit was in great unease, and the mercenaries too were almost shaken. Then, it finally happened. Out of the blue, a massive, synchronized landing in the black of night. They had no cavalry, no archers. They were running towards the fortifications, mouths frothing and war-cries echoing between the mountains. Three thousand strong versus seven hundred imperials and four hundred mercenaries.
The gates fell within an hour, maybe less. This was no army. It was a human tide, a force of nature. Frantic, the Mountainvault forces swarmed the gate, forming a shield wall, allowing the imperials to utilize their archers and work on repelling those who would attempt to scale the walls. A simple, yet effective strategy, for the short run, at least. The northern horde was so crazed that they quite literally tore through the wooden walls, beating them ceaselessly with their axes until they gave way. By the time the moon was high, there was nothing left of the fort. This took a toll on their numbers, as the defending forces were quick to cover any new opening, forming numerous bottlenecks before the eventual collapse of their surroundings. With only the advantage of higher ground the defenders seemed doomed and began losing hope, quickly.
He remembered the screaming, the weeping of men begging for their lives before being cut down like, nay, worse than animals. He remembered bellowing war-cries and screams of pain in a language he could not understand. He saw the blood of the northerner pool alongside that of the Imperial. He remembered falling back into a defensive formation with the remainder of his companions, awaiting his inevitable demise. And he remembered a thousand Imperial riders sweeping through the barbarian forces. He remembered warm tears of joy running across his cheeks. And he remembered a cluster of barbarians breaking through their formation, sending whatever remained from the mercenaries into complete disarray.
His very next memories were hazy, and indistinct. He was bound, gagged and dragged through ice and snow. His head felt like it was about to break open. Whatever remained from his base was nowhere to be seen. Hushed, husky whispers came from an unknown source. Whispers in that same incomprehensible language. Once again, he lost consciousness and awoke tied. This time, however he was left on the ground, slouched, his back against others with the same fate as himself. Some awake and kicking, and others moaning, while bleeding out. He moved his head from side to side, sharp pain passing through his spine with every twitch of his muscles. Before he could make sense of the situation, the horror began. The one prisoner sitting on his left was hauled atop a rectangular stone. An altar. The screaming of both the one about to suffer a gruesome fate and of the rest brought him into a relative state of alertness.
All around him, riddled with strange markings, were standing stones, some taller than him. Yet, it was as if he was seeing them from above. He touched the ground in an effort to stop the world from spinning. Instead of snow and soil, he felt cold, smooth stone. Confused, he sat up, ignoring the searing pain. The altar was not behind him, no. He was
on the altar. A massive stone platform rising more than a dozen feet above ground, large enough to allow thirty or more barbarians and their prisoners to roam on it, while still leaving space for a small army to stand shoulder to shoulder. Before he could have a chance to further grasp where he was, his gaze shifted back to the altar's center, where one of his poor companions was screaming in protest. As he flailed about, Wolfsbane caught a glimpse of his face. He knew him. It was another of his company. The poor bastard who had once shared countless flagons with him was now being slowly disemboweled and repeatedly stabbed. Yet, he was not being executed. A simple decapitation would suffice. No, this was something different.
He should've seen it the moment his comrade was first placed upon the altar. It was unlike anything he'd witnessed before. Like those stories told about the fae. That they stole children and sacrificed them to their hungry gods. Up until then, he thought practices like these were only the stuff of campfire tales. His train of thought was halted abruptly as a sound filled the air. An unnatural sound, thick as mud that made his the hair at the back of his neck stand. His captors were chanting in unison, with resonating voices, as their victim convulsed in his death throes. A couple of them tossed his body aside like trash, before bringing a new prisoner, this time a half-awake one, already bleeding. He sheepishly struggled, as knives were plunged inside his belly, and hands were thrust inside the wounds. A single barbarian, wearing a heavier attire than the rest, and a strange horned helmet that resembled a massive serpent skull, raised what appeared to be a bloody organ high in the sky, as the dissonant chanting only grew in volume. Air swirled around the altar's centre, as the horned barbarian began yelling in that strange tongue of his, eyes staring blankly ahead. It was as if he was no longer aware of the world around him. Then, a flash. That was all. His mind seemingly refused to recall anything else from that event. All he knew is that
something happened.
The sound of clashing blades awoke him from oblivion. His companions had come for him. In the midst of a chaotic skirmish, he felt a knife pull against his bindings, finally cutting him loose. He stood up, managing to set his thoughts in order, and, falling on his back, made his way away from the altar and into the field of standing stones. He was stripped of arms and beaten silly. He wasn't so much as in a condition to walk let alone fight. Dawn had began to crack, yet that offered no aid to the his shaken head. All he saw were shadows dancing around these dreadful standing stones, taunting him. It was a maze he was running in, and he could hear footsteps gaining on him. He fell to his knees. A faint glimmer of red in front of a stone was all that he could discern. And yet his pursuer neared. He rubbed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of vision and balance, but that only served to make him spew. In a near-unconscious haze, he reached out towards the glimmer but fell flat on his stomach, the only thing keeping him awake being the ever-louder sound of heavy footsteps.
He was jolted back into his senses by an ear-piercing yell that seemed to be a call for aid. a northener, eyes wide, axe raised, was about to strike him dead where he lay. Instinctively, he reached towards the glimmer, now appearing as a long, shining shape, with the color of burning embers. He knew he was faster than the other warrior. He had to be. He turned and grabbed it. A hilt. Swinging the object in a wide ark, he hoped to at least parry the barbarian's axe. Yet, as he swung, he felt the well-balanced blade move with such little effort through the air that not only did it stop the axe in its' tracks, but it completely sliced the wooden hilt in half, cutting through numerous hides in the process, and finally, opening up the assailant's chest. He fell down with a wet gurgle and a few spasms before rasping, and struggling for breath.
"Do it. Finish it." That voice. That accursed voice. What in all hells was that voice. He still does not know, even if he's to this day searching-
Wolfsbane felt a cold sensation wash over his head and neck, awaking from his daydreaming rather abruptly.
"'ey you! How bout you scram 'fore I make you, damned Empire-kisser." A deathly silence fell over the table as everyone turned to look at the voice's owner. A rather sizable man stood behind the mercenary, holding a now empty mug of ale, accompanied by two conveniently smaller lackeys. The patrons were hesitant to respond, signifying that said character was rather feared, and rightfully so. He did seem capable of breaking a lesser man in half. The mercenary's head was lowered, wisps of hair sticking on his face. He slowly arose, his right hand trembling and closed in a tight fist, and turned to face the one who had doused him in ale. Great girth, a crooked nose, and a scar running across his cheek. A typical village troublemaker. He woudn't be surprised if the man had served in the Royal Army.
Without concern for his own safety, the mercenary lunged over to the left minion, grabbing him by his hair, and slamming the poor sod's face against his knee. Before the body could fall down, he entered a defensive stance, but that did not stop a fair number of fists from connecting with his gut and head. Yet, he did not care. Awaiting for an opening that finally came, he extended his left hand, bashing the second lackey's throat. As the latter struggled for breath, he turned towards the bigger one. Visibly shaken, he attempted to land a few quick hits somewhere above Wolfsbane's chest, but to no avail. The mercenary, whose brow and nose were now bleeding profusely, unleashed a flurry of strikes against his opponent. Elbows smashed against the patron's face, fists pummeled his solar plexus, and yet he did not stop, even when the other man had fallen to his knees, and given up on shielding his face. Grabbing him by the shirt, he relentlessly beat the whimpering man's face until the swelling, the bruising, and the cuts had turned it into an unrecognizable pulp. He lifted his right hand above his head and prepared to deliver another blow.
"Give that bastard what he deserves." He snapped out of the haze and looked at what he'd done. His eyes widened for a moment, and, with a mixed expression of surprise and disghust, let go of the man. Turning his head to behold a visibly unnerved table of what could have later evolved to be his friends, he tossed a few copper coins over at the table, picked up his helm along with a small sack that had almost spilled some of its' contents, and left the inn, his head lowered. His little show inside would most definitely deprive him of the only chance he had of finding lodging for the evening, and even worse, he began feeling the distinct taps of a gentle drizzle upon his hood. With nowhere to spend the night, he began wandering about.
The town was a horrid, muddy mess. Half-decayed, blackened shacks were crammed beside one another, decrepit stables barely held sickly and skeletal livestock within, and whatever oil lanterns remained were rusted to the point of breaking down. He stopped for a moment, and placed his helm back inside his wanderer's sack. As he slung it over it his shoulder with an annoyed grunt, the scabbard strapped behind him snagged it. Wolfsbane sighed heavily at the sound of one of his belongings hitting the mud, and turned around to retrieve whatever fell, hoping it wasn't his beloved meatbread rations. A curse flew sharply from his mouth as he saw them covered in dirt. He crouched in an attempt to salvage what he could, but something caught his eye. Not far ahead, illuminated by the faint lantern-light, a rather well-dressed man approached. He locked eyes with him, and slowly rising, placed what few unspoilt rations were left back in his sack. The man smiled gently as he got closer, and kept his hands within sight, so as to signify that he harboured no ill intent.
"Quite a display of might you performed, back in the Lovely Maiden. I must say, I couldn't help but notice your brooch despite the... confusion. Whatever the case may be, I do not want to waste your time, so I shall cut straight to the point. My liege has need of individuals of your skillset." Wolfsbane simply squinted, and stared at the servant with a cautious look on his eye. A sharply-dressed character such as the one standing in front of him would be the first thing he'd notice in an inn as shabby as the one he'd spent the evening in. Something told him that he was followed way before setting foot in the tavern.
"Whatever the case may be, have this here envelope." The servant retrieved a rather fancy one from behind his coat, complete with a wax seal.
"You'll find whatever information you may need inside." He masked a sneer as best as he could and continued, never straying from a refined monotone.
"I suppose you are proficient with reading. Unlike most folk here." Wolfsbane grabbed the letter hastily and snorted before turning his back, continuing his search for shelter. Eventually, he settled with lying among some barrels behind a barn. It had a sufficiently protruding roof and a good deal of hay clumped together, making it the next best thing behind a tavern, yet judging by the latter's condition, it may very well be just as good. Using his sack, before retrieving his precious mestbread, and a few adjacent barrels as an improvised headrest, he got comfortable, after hastily devouring whatever remained from his meal. Shuffling about for a moment, he tugged his sleeves, crossed his arms, and went to sleep with a smile on his face.
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