OneEyedChurro

The Lucenrai Chronicles: The Fallen Kingdom

"I'm afraid I don't know very much about the agricultural conditions of the northern lands, so any statement I may make will not hold much truth concerning the matter."

"Very, eh..nobly put.

Dalsarad had to admit, though was only now just realizing, the girl sounded very educated. If he recalled, she hadn't mentioned receiving any. Did Lords often educate their maids? Dal seemed to recall some acting as teachers or wards for lower nobles, but he'd assumed those were already educated elsewhere. Maybe she had picked it up from her parents- maybe they were educated. Perhaps there was some schooling program for the working class that Dal's parents simply had no desire to send him to; certainly seemed reasonable, given how much his father wanted him to work each week. Dal made it a point to ask the young rider about it later.

"Where's your family, then? Why aren't you traveling with them?"

Bit of a sensitive topic, but Dalsarad wouldn't ever make progress towards getting over it if he didn't talk to anyone about it.

The farmboy cleared his throat, "Well, my fath-"

"Why haven't you been enlisted in the militia?"

Dal's teeth clicked as he slammed his mouth shut; felt his heart melt into his stomach. His face flushed red with a multitude of feelings- anger among them. Had the young rider eluded that he was a deserter? That Dalsarad had chosen to be on this caravan instead of giving his life defending his home?

He looked back towards Lea- her knuckles were turning white from clenching the reins, and she looked tense. Didn't try looking at Dalsarad. Maybe she hadn't meant to say anything, but that didn't make the question hurt any less. In truth, the young man was unsure of what to do. He was left flabbergasted at the suddenness of the question- he wanted to yell, cry, and not say anything all at the same time. Dalsarad clenched his fists as hard as Lea was her reins.

"I'll, uh.." He trailed off, not quite sure what he was going to say. Didn't like to say anything if he wasn't one-hundred percent sure of it. Besides, she didn't seem to be listening, anyway. He simply patted Lea's horse's head a few times and moved a little farther up the caravan.

Dalsarad was a few carts ahead of where he had been when he finally came to and noticed the tuft of smoke the others around him seemed to be perplexed by. A pair of littler ones near him- couldn't have been older than ten years of age- were gossiping as to what it could be. One mused it would be the Varyan Emperor burning at the stake, while the other simply assumed it would be a campfire made by other travelers, akin to the caravan. At some point they both looked up at Dal- perplexed perhaps by his armor or sword- who smiled back at them. The caravan was reaching the crest of the hill now, and the two young ones were excited to see who was closer to being right.

"Oh shi-" Dal caught himself; there was little ones near him, after all. The grim cavalcade came to a halt. Before them was an overturned and burning wagon- its contents (But not owners, thankfully) were strewn about the road.

Well, in all technicality, one boy was certainly closer to being right than the other.

Dal moved to the front of the caravan, taking the scene in. He unclasped his shield and held it in his left hand while the other nervously hovered the hilt of his saber. The guards were convening, but Dal noticed some of the youth were making their way towards the overturned wagon. That could prove very problematic, especially if the offenders were still around. The last thing Dal- or anyone, for that matter- wanted would be for someone to be captured, or worse.

It's okay, I was tired of feeling safe here, anyways. He thought to himself as he followed behind two others- one boy and one girl. The boy sported some knightly-looking plate while the girl was dressed much more lightly. The latter suddenly stooped to search a pack from the less fortunate wagon.

"Woah, easy with the sticky fingers." Dal took a swipe at the pack but missed as he didn't want to stop moving towards the wagon. He caught a small glimpse of the girl's face- she was older than he thought; was probably closer to his age. As was the boy, whom he addressed next after jogging a moment to catch up to his horse.

"Don't see any bodies. Dunno if that makes me feel any better."

The Lucenrai Chronicles: The Fallen Kingdom

I'm gonna get working on a post, as well.

Porsted.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Branton Naithe

“Somebody had to do something, and it’s pretty pathetic it had to be us.”

Branton, or Brant, is a very ‘average’ man in terms of appearance- he could blend in well with nearly any peasant crowd, were he not wearing his armor. He is of average build and height, and his chosen profession has left him with powerful legs and flexible muscle.

In terms of dress, Branton prefers his armor, which he saved up many months for and purchased himself from Witches’ Crest. It is rather simple, but effective- a thin and padded jack over a thin layer of chain that doesn’t go below his waist and covers his arms. Over these Brant will usually wear his Fenwalkers surcoat, which is dirty, smells of the Fen, and has an uncountable number of small tears, but represents Branton and his group. His boots and gloves are thick and made for traversing the mucky swamps of Murkran, but do little in the way of actual protection.

Brant’s face and hair are much like his surcoat, and have seen better days. His black hair has gone unwashed for who knows how long, and living in the swamps for years seems to have caused it to always look damp; a few strands can often be seen stuck to his forehead. His skin is dirty, leathery, and covered in cuts- not from swords or axes, but the pesky plantlife pertinent of the bogs he so often travelled.

---

【Full Name】

Branton Naithe, though some simply call him ‘Brant’

【Aliases】

Fenwalker; Wendigo

【Age】

Thirty-six

【Sex】

Male

【Sexuality】

Heterosexual

【Religion】

Branton doesn’t claim to follow a religion, but that hasn’t kept him from being a faithful person. When he refers to ‘god’ or ‘gods’, it is often in reference to Monarchism.

【Family】

His father passed away a few months ago of old age, but his mother is still alive and living (or trying to live) in Hoffburgt. Meanwhile his only brother, of forty, is believed to be in or near Coedwin, but Brant lost contact with him years ago. The Naithe family in its entirety is of lower birth.

【Birthplace】

Branton was born in the village of Haven, which is technically on the western edge of Grosswick, but many people consider it a part of Murkran. Despite its name, Haven is anything but. Once home to many flourishing farms, but now there stands a lone polder or two left over from when the swamp waters rose and flooded the rivers and farmland. The towns few inhabitants often only stay there to try and salvage the family land.

【Societal standing】

Lowborn, but self-appointed free man. From that, some people view him and his group as mere bandits and highwaymen.

【Former employment】

Before assimilating the group in its entirety into the Black Shields, Brant was the proud leader of a small group calling themselves the Fenwalkers- inhabitants of the swampy lands around Witches’ Crest and the Pentol river, collectively called the Fens, and it was the Fenwalkers’ objective to offer cheaper travel around the Pentol through the Fens, rather than over the bridge. To keep the denizens of Witches’ Crest from getting too curious, they would occasionally set up elaborate ruses to exploit the zealous keep’s fear of the supernatural- coating one’s body in moss; leaving “claw marks” on trees, often with squished berries as “blood”; drawing strange tracks in the mud; things of such nature. Because of this, one travelling through Witches’ Crest may hear upon the rumor of the Wendigo, but the clever or curious will only find a group of swamp-dwellers keeping travellers from paying too much at the bridge over Pentol, and making a tidy little profit on the side.

In recent months, though, the Fenwalkers not only guided those unwilling to pay the toll, but took it upon themselves to act as “border guards” or spotters for any movements farther west, in Cherwin. Though the fruits of their labor had been small, they would often take what information they discovered directly to Hoffburgt but remained anonymous.

Though the group only pertained a few dozen or so men at its peak, they were tight-knit and fiercely loyal to one another. They only took up arming themselves out of necessity considering their Cherwinian neighbors. Good thing, too, for it wasn’t long after that they discovered a small band of Cherwinian deserters trying to get into Witches’ Crest. The Fenwalkers dispatched the group, hiding the bodies in the bogs, and soon afterward Brant enlisted the group in its whole to the Black Shields, having heard of the company’s formation from keeping a close eye and ear on the keep.

【Rank and role】

Forward scout and pathfinder, the latter only should the company find itself travelling through swampy territory. The Fenwalkers, with their dirty fighting and expertise in hitting people when they aren’t looking, would also make good shock troops.

---

【Personality】

Having lead a group, Brant has a charming charisma to him, despite his less-than-desirable appearance. He is very much of a “get-it-done” persona, having grown up cutting wood, and while he takes his work seriously, he tries not to take himself too seriously, and this comes off as a down-to-earth self-deprecating humor his lads knew him for. Sometimes that makes him seem cynical, but Brant is anything but. He considers himself a realist, and tries to stay “morally gray” when it comes to heavy-hitting matters.

【History】

Branton Naithe was born to Roderick, a veteran of the Pentol valley skirmish, and his wife Cilla in the small farming village of Haven, on the western edge of Grosswick. However, the Naithe’s being of lower birth with no money to their name meant they could not afford a farm, and rather than work on one Roderick took to cutting the hemlock and ash trees near the swampier lands that bordered them. Having birthed two sons, Roderick expected both to work when they were of age, and from the time they could hold axes, Brant and his older brother, Pietr, were sent to cut wood. Should they not, they would get no dinner.

In their small and isolated village, the Naithe family was fairly cut off from the rest of the goings-on in the kingdom, until the first siege of Witches’ Crest by the former kingdom of Restwaerd. Though young, Pietr was conscripted to fight, though not his father, as he was aging and sick. That left young Brant alone to take up the quotas of both brothers under the iron-fisted rule of his father, and they aren’t years that Brant prefers to recall.

Pietr returned unscathed, and Brant rejoiced. The two brothers took up the woodcutting trade from their father, who had grown sickly and weak, but it wasn’t long before the second siege of Witches’ Crest came from what was now Cherwin. Brant and his brother enlisted once more and were stationed there to aid in the defense of the keep under young Lord Griven of Lanthford. The brothers watched in horror as their king was slain before their very eyes.

Returning back to their home with their soldier’s wages, Brant and Pietr lived the next few years relatively quietly, continuing to cut wood but also helping sustain the farms in the cooler months. Brant had broken his arm when the Sultanate declared another war to retake Coedwin, and while he begged his brother to wait for him, Pietr enlisted again immediately, where he was then sent to the southern border. That same year, the swamp waters flooded the rivers and much of Haven’s farms with it. His father passed soon afterwards, and Brant’s mother left him to go live in Hoffburgt. Left with a flooded home, no mother and no brother, Brant decided to shape a new future for himself. Gathering some old friends from his time spent enlisted at Witches’ Crest, and taking residence deeper into Murkran, in the infamous Fens, the small group called themselves the Fenwalkers, and sought to aid travellers wishing to travel to the keep a cheaper path than over the toll bridge.

Brant led his group for years until a skirmish with Cherwin spurred the man to enlist the group with the newly forming Black Shields. When he asked the rest of the group their decision was a unanimous ‘yes’.

【Dreams, short term goals, and fears.】

Branton isn’t really the type of person to set himself goals- he considers himself to be doing good, honest work and as long as he continues to do good and honest work, he’s content. Brant has a deep fear of being in some sort of negative spotlight, which comes from his father’s treatment, and it is this that drives his “get-it-done” personality.

---

【Skills】

Branton excels in swampy environments- he is knowledgeable in their traversal, their flora and fauna, and the advantages and disadvantages a group-like an army- would face inside of one. Outside of swamps, though, Brant’s knowledge of survival is no more extensive than a common man’s. The man is also proficient in woodcutting, having done that many years of his life, and is somewhat proficient in haggling prices in his favor.

【Martial prowess】

Somewhat skilled, but being self-taught, not as good as someone with any sort of training. Operates better when his side has a numerical advantage and, more specifically, when someone has Brant’s back. Able to hold his own in a one on one situation, but not for long.

【Combat style】

Being self taught, Branton is a dirty fighter. The way he sees it, if it defeats the opponent, what’s it matter? He likes to try and create “advantages” for himself- throwing dirt or mud in their face; kick em’ in the jibblies; hitting an already engaged opponent when he isn’t looking; he’ll even feign death, if need be. He often would try and “set up “ kills (Such as breaking a leg or arm, or crushing their armor, but then moving to a different opponent) for someone else to finish off, hence the reason he works better if someone has his back. His preferred weaponry is a shortsword in one hand and a mace or club in the other- the sword for light or unarmored opponents, and the mace or club for more heavily armored ones. While he can parry with the sword, using the weapons in tandem leaves little in the way of defense, however, and is why Brant relies on “dishonorable” fighting to keep himself alive.

【Weaponry】

A common steel shortsword and a flanged mace, attached to either hip by his belt. Also has a small knife sheathed behind his right hip.

【Armor】

Simple, but effective- a thin and padded jack over a thin layer of chain that doesn’t go below his waist and covers his arms. Over these Brant will usually wear his Fenwalkers surcoat, which is dirty, smells of the Fen, and has an uncountable number of small tears, but represents Branton and his group. His pants have metal reinforcement at the knees, and his boots and gloves are thick but were made for traversing the mucky swamps of Murkran, and do little in the way of actual protection.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

[Moved to CS Tab]

What Are You Listening To?

If Opeth and Turisas had a baby.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Hooray! I'll have an application up tonight, might PM you some questions between now and then.

Marches of Man: a medieval RP set in 'Broacien'

@innertt I've only read The Name of the Wind, but I agree, the system in that series is interesting.

Brandon Sanderson is another author who does a great job of making interesting magic systems in fantasy, but I think his are all a little too much for what we've been talking about.

But yeah, I like where this is going. Really subtle and mysterious.

Marches of Man: a medieval RP set in 'Broacien'

Thanks!

I do need to ask how everyone feels about magic. I'm not a 100% in favor, but if it's subtle, I am not 100% opposed either. Reason for bringing it up is that I got asked about it, and I wasn't able to pass judgement entirely on my own. So, I decided to ask here. Anyone that can give me some invoice?

@Partisan

I'm with you, and kind of lean towards the more subtle-end of systems when magic is involved. Though personally, I've always liked it when magic serves a practical purpose as well. I guess the example I'd throw out would harken back to my ol' Totem days, which I'm gonna link in a second, once I go dig it up. God rest its soul.

EDIT: Found it. Something akin to what we had in that has always been my favorite type of system.

Marches of Man: a medieval RP set in 'Broacien'

Very interested in this as well.

The Lucenrai Chronicles: The Fallen Kingdom

"Alright. I was born in a western area of Edessa, actually. Mihtmód, you know, where the Lord Bryne and his family reside. My parents were both gardeners, working in their household. When I was seven, my elder brother was taken to the capitol, to find work. I begged my parents to let me follow, and when I was twelve or so, my mother and I finally journeyed to Arrvern. I lived with my brother for a year, before I was old enough to- to work. I then moved into the castle, and I've worked for the last few years as a scullery maid."

Dal actually hadn't heard of Mihtmód, but he had heard Lord Bryne mentioned a few times in his various travels. Never saw the man nor where he lived, but Dal personally didn't admire men or women who clung to titles- and if a maid still referred to him as 'Lord' after all that has happened recently, Dal took that as a sign. Come to think of it, there was an absence of Edessan gentry that Dal actually did like. He often wondered about such a predisposition- perhaps he subconsciously picked it up from his father, the pinnacle of a working man.


"Funny you say that, my mother was a gardener, too. Even taught me the trade."

The two were silent for several moments; Dalsarad absorbed himself into listening to the footsteps of the horses and chewing the grass stalk in his mouth.

Lea broke the silence again: ""Are you planning on becoming a farmhand, then, once we reach the north? Or are you going to pursue something else? Is the earth there very hospitable towards the crops you've tended to here? Sorry if I seem ignorant, I am unaware of the customs of farmers. Is that grass you're chewing a custom of yours as well, or is that just a personal habit?"

Dal chuckled, "No, no, it's just a habit I picked up from my father. He did it to keep from biting his lips, though, which was a much nastier habit. Started when I was younger 'cause I wanted to be like him, I guess."

He spit out the grass stalk to the side of the road. It was starting to remind him of his father, and Dal didn't want to think about him right now. There were numerous more pressing issues than worrying about something he had no control of- it's not like he could stop and turn around at this point, no matter how badly the young man may want to.

"As for what I'm gonna do when we get to the North; hadn't given it much thought. Obvious choice for me would be to become a farmhand, yes, but with the Varyans and Orcs south of us who knows what they'll do. What I'd want to do is earn enough wages somehow to buy my own little plot of land, find a woman I love, and settle down on my own farm. Live my days out in quiet peace."

Dal caught himself- he was starting to get a little off topic. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"But to answer your other question- I'm not sure what the soil there'll be like. Haven't been this far North before. I'm sure it couldn't be too bad, though. I mean, they gotta grow something, right?"