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Name: Brannus "Wyrm's Bane" Krieg 

Occupation: Bandit chief/Veteran legionnaire 

Race: Nord

Class: Warlord

Gender: Male 

Age: 33 

Personality: A dour man, with little in the way of a sense of humor, and a determination that could break down walls just as easily as the many siege engines he used and repaired in the civil war. Often in ill humor, he sees life by loss and gain, the age old rule that all power demands sacrifice. Be it your time, the lives of your men, or an entire country, all power demands sacrifice. 

Weapons: Steel Broadsword, Steel round shield, Steel Dagger.

General Appearance: (look above~)

Bio: Born into a military family, Brannus knew that he'd find himself in legion armor one day as well, he didn't expect to be wielding a legion sword against his own neighbors though. He spent much of the civil war siegeing and defending fortifications and camps, along the way gaining an appreciation for the bluntness and calculable nature of siege warfare. Brannus quickly found himself being promotoed to a Captain, and in a position of command over a fair number of soldiers, enough to occupy and defend one of the many smaller forts that dotted skyrim's landscape. For a time he and his men were on the front line, archers taking pot shots back and forth at each other from behind and outside of the fortress' walls, him and his men entrenched for months outside of the crumbling stormcloak bastion. 

As with any man or mer, time spent breaking the wall could break a man of his spirit, just as easily as defending the wall could. The men grew tired, and little in the way of support or even correspondence was available to him and his men, while the stormcloaks where holed away, doing all they could to try the Captain's patience. Then, like a miracle, or a curse, the siege was broken in almost an instant; not by one of the catapults, a charge through the battered defenses, or any sort of surrender, but by a dragon. Fear ran through the ranks on both sides, but all Brannus could feel was unbridled anger, at his situation, at his superiors, at the enemy, and at the damnable wyrm who had reared its head. 

Though small, the dragon was enough to break the defenders, and those who were not burnt to a crisp by its flames, hid within the fort while it toppled ontop of them. Others ran from the fort, scrambling past the imperial troops for safety in the wilds. His own men on the verge of breaking, and the losses mounting past acceptable, Brennus slew the closest man to him, bashing his face in with his armored hand, and as the soldiers, imperial and stormcloak turned to him, awestruck, he roared. "This, is the price of cowardice! That wyrm may rip you apart, swallow you whole, or burn you ash, but that is NOTHING compared to what I will do to you lot, if you do not hold!" His speech echoed like a warsong through the trenches as his men rallied, turning their great siege weapons to the fledgling beast. It was a shot through the neck with a ballista that felled the creature, leaving its lifeless body on the ground. Silence washed over the decimated remains of the two forces, as they watched Brannus Krieg, his broadsword in hand, sever its head. 

It was this battle that drove Brannus, and what remained of his men and the opposing army, nearly thirty men all together, to desert. Why should they fight this war, when the world itself seemed to be crumbling? Dragons, the Thalmor, and the assassination of the Emperor? He and his would have no part of it. Taking what they had with them, their horses, armaments, even the great ballista which ended the wyrm, they traveled, spending the remainder of the civil war moving from encampment to encampment, finally settling in a fort in the south of Falkreath hold. Strangely, the inhabitants, a band of orcs, were all dead,and in the basement, it seemed that someone had taken something precious from a pedestal. Luckily the stockpile of food, wines, and cheeses had yet to spoil, there was enough cheese for everyone. Brannus ordered his men to string the corpses from the walls of the keep, and to perch the ballista atop the small fortress. For the last ten years, Brannus "Wyrm's Bane" Krieg, and those few men who survived, have spent their time, raiding, stealing, ransoming, and fortifying, taking every chance they can to obtain resources, and slay the horrid dovah that now litter the skies of Tamriel.