[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/yabHttt.gif[/img][/center]

[center][url=http://fontmeme.com/old-english-fonts/][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=Barda-Beorht&name=SketchedCassiusBroken.ttf&size=100&style_color=696969[/img][/url]
[url=http://fontmeme.com/old-english-fonts/][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=Knight%20of%20Ravenscroft&name=SketchedCassiusBroken.ttf&size=40&style_color=696969[/img][/url]
[i][color=darkgray]"[sub]Action is eloquence.[/sub]"[/color][/i]

[img]http://i.imgur.com/UDAUmK6.png[/img]

[img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_madeywJcgG1ry8rcwo2_250.gif[/img] [img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_madeywJcgG1ry8rcwo6_250.gif[/img] [img]http://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_madeywJcgG1ry8rcwo5_250.gif[/img]

[color=dimgray]Barda-beorht [color=black]♦[/color] Male [color=black]♦[/color] Six-and-twenty[/color]

[color=dimgray][i][b][u]Appearance[/u][/b][/i][/color]
[color=darkgray]Standing above average height, Barda-beorht is used to looking down on most men and looking the rest in the eyes. Rare is he who forces him to look up and perhaps that is for the best. For the knight of Ravenscroft has the physique of a man not unfamiliar with combat, his chest muscled like a destrier, his arms more like the limbs of trees and his skin scarred and pitted with old wounds. His face, while most comely, often set in a thunderous expression, concentrating on each knew problem or vexation with definitive clarity.[/color]

[color=dimgray][i][b][u]Background[/u][/b][/i][/color]
[color=darkgray]In the dark north of Britannia, there are many foul things. Dark marshes, grasping trees and beasts with four legs or two. Those with four legs will tear out your throat and eat you, but those with two will fleece you like a sheep then cut your throat for the thrill of it. The lands of Ravenscroft in particular were awash in brigands, bandits and bastards, and the folk of lands looked to their liege lord for succour and protection. But the old lord was craven, unprepared to risk his life for the lives of others nor to spend his gold to protect the wealth of others. The old man, Cothe-cyne was his name, relied upon his high walls and armed guards to protect him from the worst of the human predators, leaving those without walls or guards to suffer.

His young son, Barda-Beorht, railed against this course of action. His was the opinion that they should spend their gold on arming the peasant folk and then march upon their foes. This was not popular in the halls of his father's hold and he soon found his self packed off south to learn the ways of war, manhood and knighthood. While he first resented this expulsion from his home, Barda-beorht soon saw this as a blessing from the lord's own cup. Instead of being neglected by martial interests of his father, lacklustre at best, he was trained by masters of the blade, exponents of chivalry and warriors without compare. In the happiest times of his life, he learned how to fight, how to win and how to kill. In days after, he would oft look back upon weeks of battering and bruises with a fond smile.

In time, he was due to return to his home and to face his father once more. In their years apart, the wretchedness of Cothe-cyne's soul had seeped through into his out appearance. His gut hung over his belt, his chin was greased with fat and sweat and his hair was as to the rotting seaweed on a beached ship. He looked upon his son, in the prime of youth and forged of combat, and knew true hatred. He ordered his son imprisoned, struck down, beheaded, executed, anything to remove this reminder of his own failings. But the guards of Ravenscroft had not seen true battle in many a long year and feel like chaffed wheat before Barda-beorht's sword. Those not slain fled and the son faced his father in an empty hall. Perhaps he would've committed that most heinous sin, patricide, had not his father's weak heart given out. The fat man slumped upon his chair and breathed no more, though the rumour that his son strangled the life out of him would never really die.

Since then, few in all Britannia have worked as hard as Barda-beorht. He began by exterminating the local brigands, sending many south to face the kings justice and burying many more in shallow graves. He then sought to regain the respect of the small folk, long lost by his father, in the only way he knew how; trials of strength. They soon saw that their new lord was less a man and more a force of nature. With a compliant populace and no more looting, he set about repairing his family's holds and lands, having the crops resown, the fields turned and the seat of his family restored to its full strength. Ravenscroft would never be as beautiful or prosperous as the southern lands he enjoyed in his youth, but Barda-beorht was content with his work. And he would likely not have moved from his seat over much, fending off the occasional pict here and the odd welshman there, where it not for Arthur's quest for the grail.[/color]

[color=black]⇷[/color] [color=dimgray][i]Fortitude of a Bear[/i][/color] [color=black]⇸[/color]
[color=darkgray]Ten men using all their earthly weight could not stand against Sir Barda-Beorht when they contested a length of rope betwixt them. Though they pulled and heaved, they slid towards him through the dirt as though drawn by the tide itself. After that, each man agreed to submit to one blow from one of his fists, if he could withstand a dozen blows from harsh hickory stick. In a line, they eagerly awaited their turns to give their lord a thrashing most righteous, while he meekly kneeled in muddy acceptance. When each had taken his due time, Sir Barda opened eyes cloaked in blood and rose. Not one of them withstood his punches, nor yet did any think again of him as weak.[/color]

[color=black]⇷[/color] [color=dimgray][i]Fangs of the Wolf[/i][/color] [color=black]⇸[/color]
[color=darkgray]It has been said that with a sword in his hand, nothing can stand against Sir Lancelot, that he is Saint Michael's chosen champion. And all this may be true, for who knows how our lord works, but Barda-beorht is one of the few men and women in the kingdom who could offer him a challenge. His youth was little more than drab hours spent between sparring sessions, slow days passed between melees and dull months wasted before tourneys. His sword arm is like an unyielding iron bar, both immovable and irresistible, and many a knight has found his defence rigorous and testing. It is not speed that Barda-beorht has made his weapon, but skill. He doesn't move faster than most men, merely smarter.[/color]

[img]http://i.imgur.com/yyYyK2X.png[/img][/center]