Caravan of Courage: OOC

Teofish said:

I took some liberties with applying lore stuff from older Calradian history that I've caught from the Bonerlord development. If you have a problem with it........ well, then **** you you prissy cocknozzle.

Name: Rhéodh Brhéan Gwynlàthran (Usually just called Gwynn for short).
Gender: Male
Age: Neither he nor anyone else know for certain. But by his looks he's somewhere between 35 and 45.
Faction of Birth: Somewhere in the border regions of southern Swadia/North eastern Rhodok territories. What was once the old lands of the Battanians.
Allegiance: Flexible. But will never fight for a Vaegir. And will never engage in looting or banditry of any sort.
Experience: Veteran
FeudalRank: Technically minor nobility in his village. But by Sassenach standards he's just a commoner, if even that.

Appearance: A middling-tall man at 1.85m, with a build more graceful than the usual broad muscularity of a common soldier. Described as "moving like a prowling wolf". His face and body are both covered in a mix of grizzly scars and tattoos of runes and symbols of his ancestral folk. His jet black hair falls down to the middle of his back, but is usually held out of his face by braids at his temples used to tie it back. He also sports a fierce handlebar mustache hanging down in braids to his chest. His eyes are deep green and piercing, but with a subtle hint of malevolent humour and "joie de vivre".

Personality: At first glance a simple roaring brute. But his brash demeanour belies an intelligent, calculating and inquisitive mind. Even though he'd never admit to such. In battle he adopts a strangely graceful savagery, often seen weaving amongst opponents like a whirlwind of controlled fury, more akin to a fencer than the lumbering barbarian he looks. His deep and strangely melodious voice usually speaks his mind in a blunt and direct manner, except for his penchant for odious swearing. But it can also some times, mostly when he's been drinking, produce deeply melancholy songs from his people's ancient oral tradition.

Talents: Skilled in the use of most conventional weapons. But mostly with the distinctive greatswords his people use as well as hatchets/axes, smaller blades and the fearsome war-scythe. He is proficient, but not superbly skilled in the use of bows. He is also quite adept at moving quicly and stealthily in nature, and tracking/hunting/pathfinding. He is a surprisingly decent cook, and has a wonderfully deep and melancholic singing voice. Quite a strong swimmer. Inexperienced to the point of near uselessness as a rider, and is generally sceptical of horses. Not great with people of higher standings or "soft" city folk.

Biography: Born in a small village in the forests and foothills of the Swadian/Rhodok borderlands as part of one of the last remaining Battanian communities in Calradia, who following the collapse of their kingdom under Swadian pressure had reverted back to their more tribal and isolationistic ways. He was the youngest of four sons of the tribal chieftain. As all of his folk he fought from a young age with his kin against the bandit clans than infested the nearby forests and mountains when they came to raid the village. And being of somewhat slighter build than his brothers, he learned quickly that he would have to be quick if he did not desire to be dead.
Being the youngest of four he was never entitled to any prominent positions within the village. Hating the idea of living his life in his brothers' shadows, he eventually set out to make his fortune in the service of the great nations. He spent time as a mercenary in the armies of both the Nords, Rhodoks, Swadians and even in service to a Caliph of the distant Sarranid Sultanate. His skills served him well in leading smaller skirmisher bands and supply raids, and earned some reputec amongst his the commanders.
He eventually met the daughter of a Sarranid wine merchant and eloped with her when her father disaproved of him. They settled down in a village north of Dhirim, and had two daughters. But one day a Vaegir war party, hired by a Boyar bent on igniting a war with Swadia to reclaim territory his father had lost years ago, fell upon the village while Gwynn was out hunting. Seeing the black smoke rising above the treetops he hurried back, meeting a few groups of others along the way who'd also been out hunting, picking mushrooms and other errands in the local woods. Only to find both the village and his homestead burned and looted. As well as both his wife and daughters dead.
He gathered the most capable of the remaining villagers and gave chase to the Vaegir raiding party. For nine days and nights they harried them, killing one or two every night. Making the Vaegirs gradually more and more panicked and exhausted. On the last night, in a small forested vale amongst the foothills of the mountains dividing the southern Khudan tundra from the northern Khergit steppes, they made their final assault. None of the Vaegirs walked out of that vale again. They waited until nightfall, then they snuck into the Vaegir camp in smaller groups from several directions, while the best hunters among them took care of the guards with their bows. Then they proceeded to hack, cut and stab the sleeping men to a pulp. But the bloodlust overtook them, and they got careless. A fight broke out, and the night erupted in screams and the ringing of weapons on shields. Gwynn saw the man he'd already marked as the leader of the group breaking for the edge of the clearing and gave chase. The man's horse struggled in the darkness and the wooded and uneven terrain, and Gwynn finally caught up with him just as dawn broke over the mountains. There was little actual fight left in the man at this point, and Gwynn's fury had not been lessened by the chase. He tied the man down, cut off his hands and feet, then nailed him to an old dead tree on top of a hill nearby through his shoulders with tentpoles. Finally he doused the base of the old tree in lamp oil from the man's pack and set it ablaze, then stood there watching for hours until there was no more screams, or life remaining in him. To this day he still carries the man's index finger-bone with the names of his wife and daughters engraved in the old runes. He returned to the campsite where they'd made the initial assault. But if any of his comrades had survived the night they had not remained to see if the same was true of him.
Afterthat night he simply drifted from place to place for several years. Doing odd jobs during planting and harvest season, and living off the land the rest of the year. Hunting and killing any bandits and such whenever he found them. At some point he picked up his trusty wolfhound Boadicea. He no longer remembers how long he was wandering, but with the times turning sour across the lands, and deserters and bandits growing ever bolder and more numerous along the roads, he started to realise that his grieving and anger were tools made futile without purpose. So he began signing up with smaller merc bands protecting caravans and such in order to better utilise his skills for a nobler purpose.

Equipment:

Worn: A ragged outfit of a kilt-like fashion with an old and battered brigandine cuirass, old wrapped boots patched with bark and hide, a rugged backpack made of fur and a fur cloak.

Weapons: Chipped and rusted Heavy Bastard Sword, light hide shield, hatchet, two heavy throwing daggers and a short bow with a quiver of simple self-made arrows.

Horse: None. But he's accompanied by his wolfhound Boadicea.

Miscellaneous (anything else): A set of small bone needles and other implements for sewing either hides, clothing, wounds etc. Two cured deer-bladder waterskins, and a similar container for dried meats and other rations. Carries some smaller knives for whittling kindling and such. A steel spark-striker. Various bits and pieces of leather straps, hemp rope and such. And a honing stone.


Allrightie, all done. I think. Give me your harshest judgement.

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