Name: Giles de Cerneau Sex: Male Culture: Brittonian Age: 26 Physical Description: A man of average height and build, Ser Giles does not instantly strike one as a famous knight and courtier. He is well muscled and stands with the poise of a dancer, and his flamboyant mustache is imitated throughout the Brittonian court by lesser men. His green eyes are topped by delicate eyebrows, and his chin is made all the more severe by his high cheekbones. Occupation/Skillset: A famed knight and courtier of the Duke's household, Ser Giles is a childhood friend of the Duke's and one of his most trusted advisors. Personality: A man of boundless energy and enthusiasm, Ser Giles is a strict adherent to the chivalric code. He is a man whose loyalty and competence is unquestioned and rarely challenged, and he strives to be the very picture of knightly grace in all his endeavors. This ambition is checked by a stubborn, almost subconscious pride and heavy disdain for dishonest dealings, as well as a sometimes quick temper. Backstory: Ser Giles first came to prominence through the knightly tournament circuit, where he won much admiration as a man-at-arms. He quickly climbed the social ladders, thanks in no small part to the Duke's patronage, and his appointment to Knight of the Duke's Household came off the back of a series of brilliant faits d'armes.
"The quest is most righteous, good Duke. I will ensure its success."
Name:Aldwyn Ser Hugo Le Guen Sex:Male Culture: Born in England, Naturalized Breton Age: ~28 Physical Description: Hugo is a relatively average man, all things considered. He is no hulking behemoth, no short and spindly thing, no gluttonous mass... He is simply a man who has been honed by years of training and combat into the strong and quick being who stands before you. His head is shaved, but he does maintain a patch of facial hair around his mouth and chin. His height does not rise above that of five foot eight inches, and his weight is a respectable ~150 pounds, primarily of muscle. This makes him lighter than most other knights of his size, but he is quick on his feet by comparison. Considering his propensity to opt for dagger-fighting or horseback lancing, this has served him well over the years.
His body has a number of scars, some more vicious than others, and a few he seems to consider badges of pride for surviving what gave them to him- especially a particularly wicked scar on his chest that he claims he scored from a pagan druid shaman while in England.
He typically has several daggers on his person at a time, as well as a longsword and shield of his stature. He also carries a lance for horseback combat.
The longsword carried by Hugo Le Guen is no ordinary blade- it is a blessed sword, anointed with holy waters and instilled with the blessings of a holy man truly capable of wielding miracles. He rarely wields this blade. It shines, even in the darkest nights, and Hugo claims it can pierce the flesh of even the most unholy of fiends. The blade also seems to confer some limited protection from magical ailments to its wielder.
Occupation/Skillset: As a knight, Hugo is most skilled in the combative arts required of his stature. He has a unique mastery of the art of lancing and fighting from horseback, as well as a strange fascination with the use of the dagger while on foot- leading him to be considered one of the only knights to have mastered the short weapon that was usually neglected in the stead of a longsword, and he usually carries several on his person at a time- occasionally wielding one in conjunction with the longsword in the stead of a shield, even. This has tarnished his reputation as an otherwise exemplary knight just modestly, as other knights scoff at the use of a dagger due to its dishonorable connotations. Hugo is swift to defend his honor in these situations.
As a Templar, Hugo is also well versed in the bible and catholic law, as well as secular law for the region he calls home: Brtitony.
On a less serious note, the man also fancies himself a capable cook, having had to prepare many a meal while on the march or while travelling. It's a secret passion of his that he enjoys being able to do.
Due to his chosen home being the island of Belle-Ile, Hugo has also found himself enjoying fishing and sailing, though his skill is somewhat laughable at these endeavors if he is unassisted.
Personality: Hugo is a devout and strong man, but also a fiercely loyal one. He has many apprehensions within himself about mages and magic as a whole, seeing them as cheap replicas of God's power and blessings to the clergy, but he does not speak out against mages as he still sees them as fellow men. Men who study things he himself cannot comprehend.
He is, perhaps, one of the calmest men you will ever meet. He does not rise to anger easily, nor does he lack a sense of humor- and from his years of battle, little surprises him anymore. These things all combine to make him into an almost serene man, gentle in action and word unless he is driven to action.
Backstory:
Years ago, Hugo lived a life very different than the one he does now. His mother was a slave-wife, worse off than even a concubine, to the Saxon lord of Sussex. This meant that Hugo- back then called 'Aldwyn', his birth name- was a slave-boy, his lot in life to obey or die.
"Aye. I remember the time well. My mother, abused and bloodied by the man she was forced to love by pagan law. He'd won her, she had no right to disagree to anything her husband demanded. She did everything she could for me, to shield me from their wrath. I sought it out sometimes, I admit. I was a firebrand in my youth. I wanted to fight back."
Indeed, young Adlwyn despised the Saxon Lord of Sussex. Absolutely hated the man, and while he was afraid of punishment and this kept him in line for the most part, occasionally his hatred would broil over and he'd act out; throw a spear to the ground rather than put it away, knock a plate of food off a table, spill a cup of wine on the person he was delivering it to on 'accident', and many similar small acts of rebellion.
Every time he did, he saw his mother gather more bruises. Every time his mother gathered more bruises, it made him more angry. He was too young to understand that it was his actions hurting her, too young to understand that she was being punished in his stead. Too young to understand anything besides the hate in his heart.
And so the young boy continued to act out, his mother continued to be beaten, until one day his mother came to him and grabbed him by the hand, dragging him out of bed and rushing him out of their quarters.
"My Aldwyn... My sweet, sweet, Aldwyn. You mustn't look back. You mustn't."
Aldwyn didn't understand her words, but he nodded along dumbly as children do when they don't understand. He couldn't comprehend her meaning, why couldn't he look back? Where was he going?
His questions were answered soon enough as his mother sprinted him through keep, then down into the castle town, and finally onto the docks- where she rather unceremoniously threw her young child onto a ship.
"Remember your promise, Frodryr, you swore you'd get my boy to safety." She said hurriedly to the man on the small boat, a fishing vessel. 'Frodryr' nodded dumbly and licked his dried lips as she spoke.
"Aye. Ye sher this is the thing ye want? Ye'll sherly per-"
"I know, Frodryr, but he deserves more. I care not for myself, now go!"
The simple fisherman nodded and began to almost lazily set his ship to sea. Even as he moved lazily, Aldwyn could hear the familiar shouts of the guards he often scorned. He moved to try and get to the edge of the fishing boat, to look back and see his mother, but a resounding kick to the side of the head from Frodryr sent the boy sprawling and dazed, incapable of rising.
"Keep yer hed down, kid. Yer mama's saving yer life." Frodryr said quietly, not realizing the boy had already lost consciousness.
"Old Frodryr is dead already, these days. The sea is a dangerous mistress and the insane old man sailed alone. Before he died, I asked him what happened to my mother that day. He told me she got onto a different ship, and lead the guard's suspicions away from the vessel carrying me. She died getting me out of pagan hands. I consider her sacrifice the first step of God's plan for me... Though, at the time, I was nothing if not sad and angry."
A young Aldwyn was deposited in the land of Bretons without much more than a pat on the back and a meagre some of money. Frodryr told him to seek out an abbot or holy man, and that they'd listen to his story and give him the guidance he needed. Being a young boy, no more than the age of seven by this time, he didn't have any other ideas, and thusly wandered for a few weeks until he came across a town, and people helped him find a church.
It was at this church that he met a priest by the name of Fransez in the county of Leon. Fransez took the young, angry, boy in and fed him, clothed him, and taught him the words of the Bible. Aldwyn was deeply confused by all the things Fransez tried to teach him, but as the years went by Aldwyn became a fervent believer in every word of the good book, and at the age of ten he was baptized by the holy man.
"I still remember walking to the river with Fransez like it was yesterday. The frigid waters...it was autumn, nearly winter, when we did it. He offered to wait until more pleasant times, but I denied. The bible said that baptism was a rebirth, that it cleansed you of all sins. I didn't want to wait another minute, I wanted to be clean, to have a fresh start, to leave the name 'Aldwyn' behind."
When Aldwyn rose from the waters, Frasez declared him reborn- and his new name was 'Hufo Le Guen'; Hugo the Blessed.
When they returned to the church after the event, Hugo felt better than he had in his entire life. He looked upon father Fransez with new eyes, and Hugo swears to this day that father Fransez was a truly blessed man who could perform the miracles of God.
A month later, Fransez spoke to Hugo of an order he felt the young man would be well suited for. An order of knights, heroes of the church, men who would go to far off lands and fight for the glory of God- the Knights Templar. That one conversation was all it took to convince Hugo to become a squire in the order, and eventually a full fledged knight himself.
"Fransez did me a greater service by pushing me towards the Templar than I ever realized at the time. I had spoken of joining the clergy back then, spoken with him about the possibility of becoming a priest like him, but he had always seemed hesitant- seemed as if there was something about me that wouldn't make it work. Now that I can look back on it, I was angry still. I was reborn anew, and felt cleansed of all that came before, but that sin of wrath still clung to me like a stain that you can't scrub out. The church couldn't get that stain of rage out of me, but, as God wills it, the Templar could."
Many years later, Hugo Le guen found himself on a ship sailing back for the land he was forced to flee as a child. Surrounded by compatriots, his fellow Knights Templar, speaking jovially of God's will and God's plan and God's glory.
Ordinarily he'd have been engaging in the revelry as well, but he was focused on the rocking of the ship and the bad memories it surfaced. He was cleaning and sharpening his knives as the boat sailed. This was many of his compatriot's first time to England, they simply knew the pagans lived there and the Pope wanted them to kill pagans and claim land in God's name. Hugo knew what the men and women of those lands were like. He knew they'd turn the very land itself against the invaders. He knew that didn't have nearly enough men to pull this off.
But he crushed those doubts as he sharpened the third dagger he carried, moving on to the fourth. if the Pope called for a Crusade, then this was all a part of God's plan. He knew that deep in his heart, and that bolstered his resolve. With his fourth knife now sharpened, he moved onto his longsword, cleaning and taking care of the elegant blade he rarely used.
He thought about how much his fellow knights thought ill of him for forsaking the longsword in favor of the dagger- claimed it was dishonorable to wield such a clandestine tool. Hugo's counterargument had always been that he was hardly clandestine with his use of the tool; he carried them openly, wielded them openly, and stabbed his enemies in the front rather than back. He was quick to challenge such nay-sayers to duels, and had developed a reputation amongst the Templar as an insanely good knife-fighter. Few dared challenge him on the issue these days.
But he still carried the longsword. It had been a gift from Fransez, blessed and anointed with holy water, when he had become a knight. Fransez had told him that should he ever come across a foe so unholy that it turned other blades from its flesh, to use this sword and strike true. He kept that message from Fransez in his heart, and the blessed blade on hand at all times just in case he comes across a fiend his daggers won't kill.
He looked to the shores of England, which to him seemed far too close yet also quite far away all at once. He returned the Blessed Blade to its sheathe and rose up, finally joining in the revelry with his companions now that he was certain his weapons were in order.
----
When they made shore, Hugo immediately mounted his horse and was tossed a lance by one of his fellows. It felt good to be on dry land again, and Hugo Le Guen was to be the point of the vanguard, leading the way towards the castle town of Sussex. As Hugo trotted up the barren coastline, and turned back to gaze upon the small army gathered, he couldn't help but feel unease rise in the back of his mind once more. He knew the full might of England would eventually be upon them- and the number he had gathered here was comprised almost singularly of the ranks of the Knights Templar, who, while elite and dedicated, were few when not supported by the lords of Christendom.
Well, few lords of Christendom thought England was worth saving, it seems. Hugo once more crushed his doubts, and with a resounding cry of...
"Deus Vult!"
he hoisted his lance into the air and turned his horse to lead the way towards the castle town of Sussex, encouraged forth by the return cry of his fellow Templars.
--- "We crusaders marched for but a few hours before the contagion appeared. I seemed to be spared the curse thanks to Fransez's blessing, but I watched as my fellows grew colder as they walked, as spots blemished their skins, and as they grew weaker and weaker with every step they took. Not all of our number suffered the contagion, but enough to make an already hopeless war entirely futile. But still we marched, determined, with God's Might in our hearts. We could tell it was foul magic at work, for no mortal disease killed as quickly as this contagion did. Pagan shamans, some of my fellows cried.
They were wrong, what haunted us was far worse than a shaman of the Saxons. What haunted us was a druid, defending the county of Sussex. We were not prepared for her wrath. What she did to the horses is what secured our defeat."
After a few hours march, where Hugo ordered sick and dying to return to the boats and make them ready in case a retreat was needed, the company was set upon by forces most unnatural. As the horses trotted forth through brush and clearing alike, it was a sudden lurching of the earth that alerted Hugo to the coming danger. He immediately set his lance and turned to let loose a warning cry- but he was too slow.
Thick vines exploded from the growth, twisting and lurching to reach the horses and their riders. The beasts panicked, whinnying at the sudden and unnatural plant growth, but most, if not all, of them found themselves tangled and toppled, trapped on the ground and a number of them crushing their riders under their weight.
Hugo was not one such rider. He toppled to the ground with his horse, dropping his lance. HE drew a dagger from his many sheathes and swiftly cut the vines tying him to his horse, efficiently freeing himself and allowing him to regain his footing as his horse cried in fear.
"Druid!" He cried out. "Ambush!"
And before the company could truly recover, score upon score of pagan soldiers streamed forth out of the wilderness surrounding the company and began to do battle against the greatly hindered knights. A few knights were beset upon by several attackers at once before they could cut themselves free of the vines and overwhelmed, others were already on their feet and forming a battle line, overcoming the pagan warriors with their far superior skill-
But in a silent moment of horror, Hugo understood they had no chance, and steeled his heart to meet his God should he fall here, today. He braced himself and turned, dagger in one hand and shield in the other, to face an onslaught of attackers. Hugo doesn't fully understand how he survived the onslaught he did, but he can only attest it to God's Will. Deus Vult.
Hugo slew dozens of attackers, at some point in the fight losing his shield and drawing his Blessed Blade, its light making the vines coursing around him wilt and wither, the blessing in the sword cleansing the foul curse upon the wood. With blazing sword in one hand, and bloodied knife in the other, Hugo forged his way through the combat back to the battle line with his fellow Templars, and began to chant a prayer- the fellow Templars joining in, creating one moving mass of battle.
Crucem sanctam subiit, qui infernum confregit, accinctus est potentia, surrexit die tertia. Alleluia
As the Templars grouped up, no longer isolated and easy pickings, the pagan warriors found themselves outmatched by the elite knights of Christendom. The heavy armor, fine steel blades, and unwavering belief in their cause made the Templars fight as if frenzied against the berserkers and wild men of the Saxon soldiers- but mass numbers will turn the tide of any battle. Without the advantage of their heavy cavalry, it was only a matter of time before the Templars found themselves being routed by the Saxon warriors.
By this point in the battle, Hugo was fighting like a man possessed, a whirlwind of light and steel as he fought to hold the line so his brethren could retreat. Soon it was only he and a few stalwart knights left on their feet on the field of battle, the rest of the Templars retreating behind them-
but the Saxon warriors didn't charge. It was strange, Hugo thought, that they refused to attack. Then he heard it- A feminine call, a voice that seemed to echo from the trees themselves, resonating around the few remaining Templars.
"That one wields a blade blessed by one who possesses true faith. Shall I show them how little that faith matters?" The feminine voice whispered through the wind. The Saxon Band yelled a resounding affirmative. Huge set his jaw and whirled about, looking for the source of the voice, and he soon found what he was looking for;
walking out of the trees was a woman clothed more in flowers than in clothes, and she seemed smug, the very plant life around her growing in her footsteps. She smiled coyly at Hugo, lifted a hand-
and a bolt of white hot fire struck him through the breastplate he wore, piercing through his chest just above his heart, and spearing him through and through. He fell back into the arms of one of his colleagues, the woman's visage burning itself into his mind's eye as the world fell black around him.
----
"I owe much to Fransez. Without him, I'd have died an orphan boy in the streets, and without him I'd have died of that druid's wicked magic. I didn't wake up, I learned, until nearly a month after that woman's lightning struck me. Fransez says it's a miracle I'm alive. I told him that the miracle was from him, and that God had a plan for me still."
Hugo, awakening nearly a month after he suffered that grievous wound, found himself back in Breton land, under the roof of the same church he grew up in as a young boy. He was informed that his friends had carried him back to the boats, then sailed him back to Leon to be under the care of the miraculous priest Fransez, whom was as close to a father the Templar had in this life.
He spent some time in that cathedral, the church having grown under Fransez's tenure as priest, recovering his strength and learning of the happenings in the world he had missed out on.
The crusade was a resounding failure. The druid's magic, combined with the lack of support from the Christian lords of Europe, had completely handicapped the Knights Templar and repelled them. England had reinforced its power and faith, and scoffed at the Pope all the while. Christendom was in trouble- and even more so, the Knights Templar.
He learned that the order had immense troubles in France- the king of the Gauls had taken a particular hatred for the Knights Templar due to the king's debt to them, and it seemed that the order was having troubles staying on its feet after the failed Crusade. Between the troubles brewing in Gaul for the Templar Order, the failed crusade, and Hugo's recovering strength... It left the man solemn and he sought out an isolated place to stay, a place he could recover and meditate in peace, until he had found himself once more.
And this is when Hugo Le Guen sought out a home on Belle-Ile, an island south of Brittony's shores. He established himself there, and spent some months and years on that island building a church and attracting a small band of the Templar order to the island he now called home. With time, the island of Belle-Ile became known as a Templar Stronghold under Hugo's guidance, and he attained the rank of Templar Master and Commander, making him the highest ranking Templar in Brittony. Resolved to maintain his faith and convictions, Hugo took this title to heart- vowing that Belle-Ile would always be a haven to the Knights Templar, even if Gaul turned them out.
"I was Master and Commander of my own Commandery. An immense honor, to be sure. I answered directly to the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and with the growing tensions in Gaul he found my stronghold to be of particular interest to himself. The island of Belle-Ile had become a veritable stronghold, strong yet small and isolated. Perfect for Templars such as myself who wanted time away from the world and its worries until my services were needed once more.
I hadn't expected the Duke of Brittony himself to be the next man I was ordered to assist. It seems the Grand Master was seeking to bring retribution on the king of Gaul for his rabble-rousing with the order. I was more than satisfied with assisting in the Duke's endeavors, especially since it was at the Grand Master's behest. Gaul would learn to fear the Knights Templar, whether it be for transgressions against us directly, or against God's Plan for his people."
Hugo received a missive from the Grand Master himself one day while he was seeing to the administration of the Stronghold of Belle-Ile. It was directing him to leave the stronghold under the care of his Marshal, and that he should seek out the Duke of Brittony and assist him in any way he could.
Hugo accepted the charge given to him by the Grand Master and set sail for the Duke's lands, leaving behind his Stronghold under the capable care of the commandery he had grown over the years. He knew Bell-Ile would still be there when he returned, and knew that God's Plan would carry him forward until he could come back home.
Rescuing a princess is most righteous work indeed. Crossing Gaul would be dangerous and hard work, especially with the secrecy required and the rising hostilities against the Knights Templar. Hugo welcomed the quest, brave and steadfast as ever.
A fair lady with golden hair, her form is distinctly feminine with noticeable curvature and busom. Standing at 5'3", Jeanne-Marie's body is soft and untrained by a lack anything remotely close to physical labor or martial training and her wrists are notable for being thin enough for her slender fingers and thumb to wrap around and overlap one another. For her attire, she both borrows from other cultures and challenges many norms of dress. Keeping her hair uncovered, refusing to wear hats or hoods that hide her blonde locks, she instead opts for, at most, a cloak. Along with that, she has abandoned the normal gown of her seniors for ones with a snug fit, tightly hugging her figure and held well with buttons and laces. The most infamous of her alterations, however, comes in the length of the skirt which brazenly displays the girl's ankles and far more, in some of the more extreme cases.
Born into the great wealth and prestige of the de Anjou house, Jeanne-Marie was blessed with great education far and above those of lower station. Languages, literature, music, courtly manners and functions, history, stewardship, horse riding, and diplomacy were all part of her daily lessons.
Her aptitude for entertaining others with with and skill with flutes was certainly an appreciated feature, but it was the connections she formed and the use of them that truly made her stand apart from her siblings. Once she realized the power that word and coin could afford her, Jeanne-Marie became keen at using intrigue to get a leg up on, or even sometimes outright remove, her rivals.
The princess is noted to enjoy games which can be played without much physical demand, with chess being one she is particularly fond of. Though it originally was a hobby, tailoring has found itself as a major focus for Jeanne-Marie as she designs almost all the attire she wears herself.
Ascribed as a spirited youth, even in her childhood, the girl seemed to have an endless energy and passion for things that she set herself towards. Unfortunately for her caretakers, this energy also made her restless and rebellious. Well known to simply run off on her own accord to do something, rather than letting servants take care of it, she is supposedly the reason that some of her handmaidens have some noticeable gray hairs.
Beyond that, Jeanne-Marie is also puts forth a great deal of energy into standing out and impressing others, wearing personally designed outfits that are both striking and well-known to cause the older members of court to blush. On that same note, the princess despises her siblings, believing them to be underachievers that are unworthy of being a part of the Anjou house.
A legitimate child of Robert, King of Naples, Jeanne-Marie found herself in a difficult situation for any ambitious member of royalty. Being a lady, she had to contend with her multiple brothers for positions of notice, who were generally favored for their potential status as heirs to the Naples throne. Even as a young child, she was resentful and envious of her brothers for the preference they recieved over her. For a time, she lamented in silence until one of her tutors asked what had been bothering her so. As troubles of her childish heart were laid bare, the musician was inspired by her struggle, having gone through similar troubles in his own lifetime over who would inherit his father's instrument. Deciding to aid the child he found a kindred spirit in, he began to impart the wisdom of his own life onto her so that she might overcome as he did.
Jeanne-Marie learned to cast aside doubts and gain the confidence that will force people to take notice of her. If she wanted something, the girl just had to reach out and take it. And take she did. Increasing the amount of lessons she took, the girl was determined to overcome that which she had once thought to be impossible obstacles. With time, her ability to entertain combined with the knowledge she held at even a young age turned attention from her brothers onto this golden-haired girl.
With this attention, however, came those that would seek to have her undone. Her eldest brother, in particular, grew tired of hearing the praises of his junior. Hiring one of the maids, he had her ruin the girl's wardrobe in hopes of teaching the girl her place. Unfortunately for him, Jeanne-Marie no longer wept when trouble occured. Using her skill with tailoring, the girl personally mended her attire and, deciding to send a message to any rivals that she was truly unstoppable, she incorporated the damages into the design of her once-tarnished clothes. Arriving at court the next day, the confident youth shocked the courtiers with a dress that left almost all of her right leg bare, fully exposing the stocking she wore. Yet, the trim she had embroidered into it made it seem as though it were a purposeful design choice. The immodesty caused an uproar, but she would not be shamed or embarassed. Refusing the cover herself, the confidence she had been instilled with shone through, and she remained in court that day.
As she came close to adulthood, Jeanne-Marie began influencing her father for potential marriage options for her. Ever shooting for the stars, the girl sought to secure a marriage with the Gaulle heir in hopes of becoming the next queen. After planting agents in the Gaulle court, she waited for her chance which, as fortune would have it, came quite soon. A dance was coming up, so she arranged for her to visit the city of Avignon in the Provence region and made her appearance there quite public. Once there, she then secured herself a spot at the dance since she just happened to be "in the area." With her position set, she attendeded the event and focused her efforts on the heir as she flirted with the prince and held his attention for almost the entire event. Even after returning home, she refused to let up as she began to write letters to him containing poetry and romantic writings.
For a period, all seemed to go perfectly according to plan until one of her planted agents informed her that the King was planning to spurn her advances towards his son and capture the Savoyard Princess with the intent of forcing a marriage between them. Refusing to let such a situation unfold, Jeanne-Marie wrote a letter addressed to the Duke of Brittony and made another trip to Provence. Upon arriving, she gave her attendents funds and permission to simply relax in exchange for their discretion until her return before adorning a disguise and setting off to Brittony herself. She knew not if her plan would work, acting under the disguise of an Anjou agent, but she wanted the prince's hand for herself. And if she wanted something, the girl just had to reach out and take it.
Better shut it down before I step in, bud. No one wants that.
Name: Aurélie
Sex: Female
Culture: Brittonian
Age: 34
Physical Description: Aurélie is no taller than your average Brittanian peasant, but that is arguably where most similarities end. Her oaken brown hair tousled and unkempt at shoulder-length, further enhanced by dark eyes, presents a wild, unruly image. Though perhaps not overtly muscular, the woman is stout enough to be considered fit and able. Her wardrobe appears to be recent, with fresh, clean cut fabrics that look more expensive than she’d ever be able to put up. She’d been further equipped with a selection of plate and leather, once again both new and unfitting someone who so clearly belongs among the rabble. Indeed, a true hint to her lot in life is the tattered red cloak bound over her shoulders: Old and ragged, it was no doubt majestic at one point in the woman’s life – now it is a clashing addition to an otherwise clean appearance.
She carries a long knife, a short sword, an arming sword, and a set of iron knuckles.
Occupation/Skillset: Aurélie is skilled with a variety of weapons and can hold her own against dangerous enemies in a moderately fair fight. While it is doubtful she has ever truly had any formal training, weapons drills or disciplinary education, a life of hardship has driven her to perform well in unorthodox and brutish ways, and she excels against solo combatants because of this adaptive outlook on battle, and her uncanny ability to find a way to fight dirty even in the most fair of fights.
Though it is doubtful she can read, she is generally knowledgeable when it comes to maps, strategy and even underhanded intrigue, though she’s certainly no sneak thief.
Finally, Aurélie has a wealth of knowledge relating to survival, both in the wild and on the street. She has spent long enough alone or struggling to have found the solutions to many of the basic needs a traveler may have.
Personality: To call this woman anything but a thug would arguably be giving her too much credit. Much like a lion or bear, she carries herself with minimal exertion, and can easily appear lazy at the worst of times, slacking off or complaining about boredom during an assignment. Still, just like the animals, she is prone to fits of rage, and will switch from goofing off to being confrontational with deceptive haste. To make matters worse, she appears fully in the know of how aggravating her behavior can be and will try to get a rise out of people so long as she can get away with it.
She certainly lacks formal education, but her coarse, lazy exterior hides a manipulative woman who is quick enough on the uptake to have survived this long, despite by all accounts being a relative nobody. She will do what she must to survive, and furthermore appears to have some basic decency somewhere deep inside, if only by virtue that she will not stoop to bullying and picking on the weak. She at the very least has a basic concept of honor, if only to mock it. Whatever moral code she has, it’s been warped by years spent in the lowest rungs of society.
Backstory: Fate can be a fickle thing, if fate is even something to be believed in. Aurélie certainly never has. Put into the world in a stable and spirited away to a cloister, she experienced an upbringing that promised to be as unkind as it was devoted to God. She grew up knowing she was unwanted, and when she started picking fights with the other orphans living around the monastery, it was to no one’s great surprise. Between constantly being in fights, being punished for various misdeeds big and small, and being told there was a world out there that was not for her, it was also to no one’s surprise when she one day vanished from the garden and never came back.
No more than a tramp in a world of farmers, nobility and magi, Aurélie found herself drawn towards the city beyond the hill, Brest, and joined it’s ranks as yet another street rat, a boisterous parasite on the well-meaning citizens of Brittany. What few contacts she made during her growing years, she simply added to the list of people that would eventually try to punch, kill or steal from her. When she had grown old enough to pretend to be old enough to get into real danger, she quickly found herself in the employ of street thugs, running errands and back up during altercations. She became an enforcer, a messenger, and a criminal. How she made the transition from street brawler to mercenary is up in the air, but it is all too likely that she simply ran away when the guards came calling, and found work that suited her penchant for violence.
She resurfaced in several different places over Brittany and Provence, doing odd jobs and guard work for whoever would pay. Perhaps most surprisingly, she seemingly transitioned entirely from her earlier life of small-time crime to land in the employ of dubious fighters for hire, city guards, and paying merchants. While by no means a legend, Aurélie has participated in enough small scale violence over the years to earn herself a solid reputation as a thug for hire, and someone reliable enough to stand by her employer, even if those same stories have nothing pleasant to say about the woman beyond her assorted skills.
And so it was that fate – were one to believe in such a thing – had placed Aurélie in the Duke’s sphere of influence, returned to Brest and in the occasional employ of people vaguely to do with courtly affairs. When the call came to assemble a grand party to rescue a dame, a handful of guards in the Duke’s livery came to ‘offer’ Aurélie a prestigious chance to help. Surely succeeding in such a quest would elevate her out of her endless struggle.
For all intents, Tristan resembles any other young nobleman who might reside in the court. He dresses finely, and stands both tall and proud. With a mop of brown hair that he keeps short, for the most part, and hazel-coloured eyes that always seem to shine with mirth. His face is fair, his skin pale, and any scars he has are more likely from childhood scrapes than battles. After all, his life is somewhat comfortable, to the observer. He does, however, keep himself fit, from a combination of practicing swordplay and archery, and dancing at events in court.
Occupation/Skillset:
Unknown by most, Tristan is a spy in the employ of the Duke. Well, it wouldn’t do for people to know, after all – it would defeat the purpose, in fact. His duties mostly entail surveillance, gathering information that various nobles or merchants might try to conceal. Smuggling silk or spices, diplomatic sabotage, even the occasional murder – all these are Tristan’s to uncover. Sometimes he relies on subterfuge, picking locks and climbing through windows, to get what he needs. Other times he uses deceit and charm. And, of course, he has a fair number of skills that come from being noble, though not all. He has trained in swordsmanship, archery, and riding, learned how to dance, bargain, and strategize. These lend themselves to his overall skill.
Personality:
Tristan considers himself to be suave; and in a sense, he is not incorrect. He is intelligent, charming, elegant, and carries an air of confidence. But he can be arrogant, from time to time, and he is by no means wise. He has a tendency to be zealous, and this can lead to recklessness, or close calls. Due to his blood status, he might suffer from taunts or jeers from his peers, and this usually results in anger. Additionally, around others, he might act pompous, and foolish, though it is far from his actual self – it is a mask he wears, a façade, so that others don’t suspect he knows more than he lets on.
Backstory:
Tristan is, in no uncertain terms, a bastard. He is the son of a servant woman, and a minor noble – Lord Aymon Veneti, low enough in power that he wasn’t among the most renowned members of the Duke’s court, but high enough that he had a measure of recognition. His father was both married and had an heir before Tristan, but that is not to say that he was ignored. In fact, he had a noble upbringing alongside his half-brother, Reinald, and when she was born, his half-sister Adelaide. He was snubbed by his step-mother, of course, but he thought nothing of it for a great portion of his life.
When not being educated by the harsh tutors, or playing games with his brother, he spent time with his mother. Despite the scandal of her son, she had been kept on at the Veneti household, to the Lady Veneti’s protests. He would watch her tend to her duties. She kept out of sight like servants should, but Tristan eventually became skilled in identifying where she and the other servants walked, where they’d go to conceal themselves – and he emulated them. Such was his life.
But, eventually, it could no longer last. When he was in the middle of his adolescence, the Lord Aymon took ill, and would succumb a month after. The change was swift. His father was mourned, by both him and his siblings. With Reinald taking over the household, the Lady Veneti stepped in to advise him. Tristan barely saw his brother anymore, but that was to be expected, given he now had duties to attend to. And as time went on, Tristan was given a summons by Reinald, to speak in private. Apparently, his step-mother had been whispering to him that Tristan might plot against him, in a bid for power, that even now he had to be careful of a dagger in his back. Despite Tristan having no such ambitions, they made an agreement, for the safety of both – Reinald from Tristan, and Tristan from the Lady Veneti – that Tristan should leave. That was how the young nobleman found his way to the Duke’s court.
Announcing himself as Reinald’s representative, he would attend court in his brother’s stead. This covered the documentation of taxes, the crops grown and the serfs that died and were born. Missives were carried between the castle and the Veneti residence. One day, however, Tristan found himself bored, and whilst walking the corridors, saw another man, a noble higher in rank, acting unusual. He would check behind him and in front of him, and dodged into rooms and alcoves whenever a guard might pass by. Tristan, unwilling to challenge the man, would follow. He trailed the man for quite some time, into the catacombs, until he encountered his target and another man talking with one another, regarding some shipment of a kind. Though he didn’t know the topic, he could tell that what these two men spoke about was neither meant to be heard by others, nor permitted by law. Stepping out of his hiding space, he confronted them. They responded by attempting to bribe him, and when he refused, kill him. His murder was prevented by a well-timed arrival of a fourth man, who swiftly detained the two. This man himself was the Duke’s spymaster. Like Tristan, he had been trailing the nobleman. The man in question had been suspected for a while now. But when the spymaster had noticed the youth doing the same, he observed him, instead. Tristan was told he had natural talent, to which he disagreed, but when he was offered a position, he knew it would be poorly advised for him to refuse. He was taken on as a spy-in-training, and the rest is history.
Name: Aleister Greyson Sex: Male Culture: English/Frencg Age: 32 Physical Description: Aleister is a surprising tall and intimating man at about 193cm (6'4ft) tall, with broad shoulders, and a powerful and well honed build. Oil black hair, left long but tied back with little regard. When let loose its a streak of straight black hair that runs down to the middle of his back, and spills dramatically over his shoulders. With a slightly pronounced jaw line, green eyes, and thick eye brows his face is impressingly handsome, if boyish at times. Never one for a beard his face is always clean shaven, and nothing less seems to be excepted by him, as his face is always bare and bald, even of stubble. Rumor has it the boy simply can't grow a man's bread and shaves religiously to hide a humourously patched over chin.
When his hair his down, and a bald face, his boyish face goes from handsome to pretty. If not for his hieght, broad shoulders, and muscler build he could pass for a woman if even forced into a dress. He might kill you for it though, being called a woman or girly gives him a fair degree of salt.
Other marks of note. Over his left eye rest a once rather nasty burn mark. Years of treatment have lessoned the scaring, but its ugly reminder remains. The mark covers the entirety of his left eye and a large portion of the upper left of his face. His eye still works, lucky.
The rest of his body is also covered in a variety of lesser burns, and scars. Most from earlier childhood, others from battle and training.
Occupation/Skillset: A skilled mercenary, holding pride with a shield and mace, horse back riding, and hedgemagery. Brutality complemented by a harsh and skilled tounge, even if slow to speak and quick to listen. Aleister is a pro at physical intimidation, sullen and sarcastic wit, with very perceptive and alert sense of self and surroundings. If it helps to keep him alive, its a skill hes put time into. Adding to this theme of thought he has taken time to master survival while in the wild(hunting, fishing camping, ext), basic feild wound care, local customs (if possible and required/requested), a basic grasp of current history and political affairs of both local and afar. It helps to know whoses willing to pay for your services.
As a Hedgemage Aleister has mastered the basic Arcane principles, along with a whole host of what he considers Utilitarian magics. Most of these are weak but helpful, like mending a rip in a shirt, detecting other magics in the area, setting up a small magical boundary that alerts him when crossed, and so on and so forth. His real talent lies in warding and protective magics, along with the ability to disrupt others and tear down magic already in place. This is also his main selling point. A guard with the ability to protect a cilent from both sword, shield, and harsh traveling conditions.
Personality: Aleister is know for few things outwardly. Those are being feriously loyal to his contract, quiet and sullen when with others, a man of little to no drink when on the job, physical intimidating but verbally non-threatning to non hostiles, and personally guarded. Greyson is a tough, unsociable nut to crack. But their is a person under the gruff exterior. The majority of Aleister's personality and logic come from fear. Fear of death, fear of loss, fear of love, fear of failure, and fear of being forgotten. His line of work is stressful, and requires great mental and physical fortitude, yet it keeps him free, and allows him to keep moving forward. In the end hes a man running from his fears, and doesn't know it. Beyond that he has a soft spot for wemon and children, and a protective nature. He tries to hide this with harsh tones and words, but actions speak louder than words to those who listen.
Backstory: Grayson, as his name implies, came from a family of English stewards left in the care of French lands some generations ago. Originally tasked with caring over ports. By multiple marriages Aliester was eventually born to small land owning family. Minor noblity at best, peasant lords at worst. Aleister would have been raised a normal child, possibly sent off to squire for a knight in hopes of achieving a better lot in life, but instead his home was burnt down in a fire during winter. Aleister was left a only child, with no family to truly call his own and began the long road of life by joining up with a Free Company. They tuaght the boy how to live, and raised him well to man hood. But like a comedy of the Gods his new home cuaght flame yet again one dry summers night. Aleister flead and lived, but most others weren't so lucky. The rest settled down with what they had left, or died from a string of bad luck that had befallen the Company. In time, all that was left was one. Aleister never joined a Free Company after that and instead began to work solo. Mainly as a guard for Nobility, or a simple town guard during festivities. He had also been know to tackle small bandit camps, and provide insight onto the workings of anti-Routier tatics. As it turns out, Nobility are more willing to hire a private guard when that guard is distant family, so Aleister has never hurt for work. Over the last few years he has taken a somewhat steady job of protecting a young lord. Mostly pity work given to him by distant family, but it has let him establish more distinct contacts in the French court. [@
Of an average build, Alfred looks younger than he actually is and usually hides his form beneath the robes of his position at court. He stands at about 5”11, and his forearms and hands bear the rough burn scars of someone who has made enough mistakes with magic to know how to avoid repeating them. Under the hood of his robes, his hair is short and closely kept, dark as a raven’s plumage, and his body is more toned than it is actually strong.
Occupation/Skillset:
Alfred is a powerful and highly trained hermetic mage. His is the magic which is most reliable – the magic which, like any part of the natural world, follows laws. Aside from his ability in spellcasting, he is also an expert in magical lore and academics. If someone, somewhere, has done something magical, then Alfred has a good chance of being able to explain it – and if he can’t, then he’ll study it until he can. In the court of the Duke of Brittony he fulfils the position of the court mage, an advisor in all things magic, occasional interpreter of dreams – and a force to be reckoned with in his own right.
Personality:
Alfred is an intuitive and perceptive person, wise and kind. His natural demeanour is an astute and guarded one, however, from his years in the court of The King of England and then in the court of the Duke of Brittony, where politicians were the most abundant species. He is inclined towards children, however, and looks to take on an apprentice at some point – if he should find someone young enough to have time to learn all he knows, with the right temperament, and the natural ability.
Backstory:
Alfred Grimm does not have parents that he can remember, or put name and face to today. Instead, he was abandoned at the doors of the hall of King Edward the Confessor before his first birthday, apparently so that he could be taught the ways of magic by the court mage – a wise and elderly mage of the hermetic tradition, named Eamer of East Anglia, a name which no more told anyone his place of origin than ‘Eamer of Albion’ would have. Eamer the Mage remained as mysterious as this through much of Alfred’s studies, rarely speaking of his hometown or origins if ever. Despite this, he was a talented and creative mage, and a superb teacher.
Alfred Grimm – named so not for any family, but for the colour of his hair – would begin to learn the core magical principles and the very basics of spellcraft at about the age of four or five, in roughly the same period as he was learning to read, write, and laminate vellum. He took to it as a fish takes to water, or a bird to flight, and still looks back on this time with great fondness. As time went by, the lessons naturally grew more advanced, the relationship between Master and Apprentice deepened, and Alfred’s understanding of how things worked in the hermetic system grew and grew. He was passionate about learning – and equally as passionate about applying.
When he was 16, near a grown man by the world’s standards, he set about improving his abilities without his master’s guidance. This notion was motivated by his attraction to the girls of the court – daughters of minor noble houses, daughters of slightly less minor noble houses, servant girls, anyone really. This naturally made every decision he took in pursuing this goal rather unwise – and it came to a head when he tried to demonstrate a spell he had modified for them, a spell he had changed to make it more effective. It was indeed very effective – because he had removed the safeguards that made it tolerable to use.
He nearly lost his hands to an all-consuming magical fire. The girls he had been trying to impress never spoke to him again, terrified of what he could do and how little control he seemed to have. What kind of mage ends up bedridden for a fortnight because they didn’t know how to avoid setting their own flesh on fire? A dangerous and stupid one. He did not repeat this mistake.
Master Eamer was furious, but he did not once consider rejecting Alfred as his apprentice. He nursed him back to health personally, feeding him all sorts of vile tonics and potions in the name of his wellbeing – a practice which Alfred later suspected as being as much punishment as remedy. A punishment he accepted, though. From then on, he was more disciplined in his studies and practice of magic – a change Eamer appreciated, no doubt. He would gain many more scars and burns in his studies, of course – but they would be more in the name of experimentation and research than bragging.
Alfred went on to learn alchemy, medicine, scrying and the primitive forms of divination available at the time, summoning – though he rarely dabbles in that, - ritual magicks, and the art of perceiving the hidden and subtle flows and eddies of arcana and mana in the natural world. It was a happy time, and it changed much of how he lived his life. In time, he was also to learn the less arcane and more practical aspects of life at court. Table manners, for example. Also, politics, the basics of swordsmanship, the ins and outs of heraldry and nobility, and at one point philosophy and art.
Time wore on. Alfred grew wiser, smarter, and bigger… and his master grew old. Older than he already was. Smaller, weaker, sicker, too. Among the last things his master taught him before Alfred took over at the court mage was how to learn for himself – and how to teach others, as well; he remembers his master’s words well to this day –
“Alfred, you have always lived this life, you have always known magic. Your parents gave you to me because they had learned early that you were talented in this way – but many in the world have the gift, and never know.”
“Alfred, you will know when the time is right, you will know who is right. Some day, find an apprentice of your own. Teach them. Pass on your knowledge. I have already taught you more than I thought I could.”
“Alfred… you have been wonderful. Every day I have been thankful to be able to teach you. When my time comes… bury me in Gwent. It’s where I grew up. Where I learned what you’ve learned here, from me.”
His master lived for three years after Alfred took over his role at court, giving advice, still practicing magic, always learning. When he died, it was quick, quiet, and peaceful.
Alfred grieved, and took three months from his time at court to return Eamer to his hometown in Gwent.
When he returned though, he found that things had changed somewhat. For one thing, a woman named Edyth – one of the girls he had once tried to impress – was visiting him more and more frequently. For another thing, so were some other noble women. Some for potions for their complexion, some for potions for fertility, some for various other potions for various other things. Knowing that this would not make him popular with the men of the court, he tried his best to spend more time with the former than any of the latter – she was a servant, and charming, but not the kind of person any of the noblemen were likely to have keen interest in.
He was wrong.
She was beautiful, and very loving, and bright, and the subject of a torrid affection on the part of an admittedly minor noble, but still noble enough to ruin Alfred’s day – especially when his dear Anise ran to Alfred crying, a bruise across her cheek.
He had never been so angry.
Had it not been for the physical proof of the young noble’s assault on Anise, and his own high standing in court, he would likely have been executed for what he did to the offender.
Instead, he was exiled – so that he might “… become Brittony’s problem.” On the bright side, Anise was unlikely to receive any unwanted attention for quite some time – the last man to give her any had ended up as something of a cautionary tale at court, his own standing ruined too.
And naturally, mages and wizards have plenty of work going. It was only a matter of time before he ended up in service to the good Duke, as he had been for some years before the quest began.
