Name: Conall Cassidy

Race/Faction: Kingdom

Age: 26

Description: Conall stands at a staggering 6’8 with 270 pounds of muscle, the kind only obtained from years of battle and training. He has mid-length red hair which is cut short on the side and left to grow on top. He carries a short beard that is crept close to his face. He has palish skin that reflects his birth in the north were bright sunny days are scarce. Pale blue eyes that have seen the horrors of this world and that are filled with grief and regret. Always ready for a fight Conall always carries his two custom made war axes whose blades are engraved with family and tribal markings gifted to him by his father on his belt. Should he ever enter a planned battle Conall adornes green war paint with one vertical line above his right eye and two below the eye. When not training or helping other around him Conall wears more decorative clothes which are most always green.

"Class": Berserker

Motivation: Conall is always looking for a good fight and a new way to challenge his limits so when the time comes he will never let those he loves die again. How these come about he cares not, while he admires them as foes in battle ultimately their lives mean nothing in his book just obstacles in the way of protecting his loved ones.

History:
Conall grew up in a small Celtic village to the far north known as Mac Tire “The Wolf”. His father being chief of this land was taught how to be strong courageous and most of all how to protect what you held dear. He took these lessons to heart and aspired to be the kind of man his father had become. He worked tirelessly to perfect himself become a remarkable warrior and man that could lead his people to success.

At the age of 16 Conall accompany his tribe into battle where he would get his first taste of battle. While some of the boys took some time to grow accustomed to the reek of battle and sounds of falling men Conall reveled in it. Following his father's lessons he threw himself into the thick of the battle showing no mercy to his foes and making sure to protect his men. Because of his selflessness and ferocity in battle he was given the title of bers,erker and hero of their village.

However with all gain comes loss and none know this better than Conall. Not long after this great battle was Conall used as a pawn in a much larger game. An evil witch who had hated his people with all her heart had decided to use him to exact her revenge. The witch used her magic to cloud his mind and fill him with a rage towards his father that could only be quelled with blood. It was on the very hill where he was given his war axes that he struck down both his father and his brother. Upon his father's loss of life Conall broke free from the spell and bore witness to the atrocity he had just committed.

Feeling lost and responsible for the loss of his father and brother he wandered the wilderness aimlessly searching for a purpose in his now miserable life or possibly an end to it. It was in these darkest times that he was given a light in the blizzard. One of the King's closest men had been sent to retrieve Conall. Upon his meeting with the King Conall learned of the deals his tribe had made with the King. In return for “dealing with” the kings more undesirable and rebellious cities the king promised to keep his armies at bay. After learning this the king offered Conall a purpose in life, to serve him as not just a member of the vanguard but his his own personal attack dog.

Strengths:
Superb Warrior: while he doesn't claim to have the best form of a fighter Collan is not easily defeated whether it be in the confusion of a battlefield or in a one on one engagement.
Resourceful: His long time spent in the wilderness has taught him how to be a proper trader and hunter of all things
Ruthless in battle: Conall living up to his title fights with a ferocity that is rarely found in men and isn't afraid to fight dirty in order to win, because after all it only matters if you won not how.
Protective: Collan would rather take the arrow himself then see a comrade fall in battle
Brawler: Evan before he was trained with a weapon Conall was trained in unarmed combat using his often superioConall, weight, and strength to push his opponents around.
Bersker Rage: Under the King's teachings Conall has learned how to control the magic left in him by the witch and focus it towards his more challenging opponents. However, this power can be very draining on the body causing mass exhaustion.

Weakness:
Constantly drinks: While never to the point of a belligerent Conall drinks mostly to numb the pain of his past
Loves a good fight: conall often gets lost in his fights enjoying it far more than he should. This can at times lead him to look for fights to fill the void between battles.
Closed off: because of his troubled past Conall rarely opens up to people in a meaningful way but those he does can be sure that they are now his family.
Loyal to a fault: Conall is often times blindly loyal to the king and those he cares about
Berserker rage: Not all of the magic in Conall has left giveing him the ability to give into the rage on will becomeing almost unstoppable. However upon doing this Conall looses all control of his actions and is unable to see friend from foe. The only way he can come out of it is if he has become exhausted or is out of people to to fight



What is the most important thing to know about your character?
Conall absolutely despises treachery and cowardness. It would take a great deal of explanation to to convince him otherwise.

What is your character's greatest flaw?
Because of his background as a barbarian raider, the chief's son no less, and the fact is just joining in this time of treachery within the kingdom causes many to not trust him.

Why should your character be in a position to influence an entire country?
He is a strong warrior who would gladly die for his people and will always put his people above him.

Two Days before meeting with the king at the end of backstory
“What’s his problem” asked one of the patrons while pointing at a large man sitting at the end of the bar.
“That would be Conall” replied the bartender “he always does this after a battle.”
Conall continued to stare at his bottle of ale wondering as he always did. It wasn’t that he hated battle, quite the contrary in fact, he revealed in it loving every minute of it. It was more so that he longed for the times when his battles meant something. To long had it been since the days when Conall has fought in the large chaotic battles with his father. Maybe he coul-

“Hey you over there with the stupid makeup on your face.” Drunkenly yelled one of the three men sitting at the bar. “Why do you look so sad? Not man enough to kill in battle and deal with it?” “the most pathetic excuse for a raider I have ever se-”.

The last of his statement never left his mouth as a bottle shattered against his temple. The other two men looked to where the bottle for were it could have come from and saw Conall standing with a look of pure rage. Without a word he quickly moved to meet them ready to fight. In their drunken stupidity they had lacked to noticed the sheer size of Conall in comparison to themselves. He easily cleared them by a foot at the least and clearly outmatched them in strength. Not wasting a second Conall head butted the first man followed by throwing him over a table to their left. The second man had at least enough wits about him to throw a large hook at Conall, which Conall easily dodged and was rewarded with a large boot to his stomach sending him into the wall. A swift punch to the ribs and one to the jaw was all it took for conall to knock him down.

“Let that be a lesson to ye. Never disrespect my people again or it’ll be your last.” turning he set his sights on the man who had been thrown aside earlier now holding out a sword. “I will give you this one chance” stated Conall through his teeth already gripping his axes in anticipation “put down the wepon and take your mates drunken arses out of here or i'll have to kill ya.” Conall just shook is head as the man rushed at him “why do they always think a weapon will help at all.” The man slashed downward hoping to catch Conall off guard. Conall simple side stepped and caught the sword in his axe stopping the man and causing them to be side by side. From here Conall placed a hard kick into the man's knee shattering it intanly. This would be the last thing the man felt as not a second after having his knee broken did Conalls axe relive his head from his body.

“My my you certainly know how to handle yourself in a fight in see. He certainly is good at finding the interesting ones.”

“And who might you be?” Conall asked in a tone that showed he was not in the mood for a conversation.

“Am I simple a messenger sent to retrieve you. You’re in no danger I assure you. Just a simple meeting that could help give you some purpose back into your life.” applying emphasis on the word purpose as if he knew that was what Conall need most at that moment. “Well you coming?” He said beginning to leave.

“ I am sorry about the mess here is for the damages.” Conall replied giving the bartender his last couple gold and heading out with the strange man..

Faction: Royal Family

Age: Twenty-first year.

Description: Prince Aaron is an immense young man of strapping build, with a round head and slightly pudgy features. He near matches his father the king's height and weight, but that is where the similarities between father and son end. Aaron is round of face and dark of hair, with a clean shaven chin making him look young, but professional. His body is supple and strong, but not without a slight girth that makes him seem even larger and more imposing to most. He dresses in fine hunting garb, gilded armor, and colorful outfits both vainglorious and sturdy. At his hip are an ever present dirk and longsword, ornate in a wealth of garnets and gold. The Prince carries himself with all the swagger of his station and youth, his stride confident and sure, his shoulders poised in good posture.

Class: Crown Prince, Lord Commander of the Vanguard

Motivation: Aaron is to one day be King Willum the Second! He is the rightful heir to the Kingdom and the current Lord Commander of the Vanguard. He holds a deep vested interest in maintaining the Kingdom so there might be lands and lords and ladies to rule over once his father passes. He also desires to grow his own influence in court, and prove himself a worthy heir to his father.

History: All the bells in the city rang for Aaron's birth. The crones wept joyously, the men shouted in eager admiration, and all the people marveled and welcomed the young ruler into the world. Or so it is said. Whether the people truly danced from dawn to dusk and feasted for ten days and nights, or muttered a sullen, "who cares?" before shuffling about their work Aaron does not concern himself over it. He was born and named Crown Prince Willum Aaron Tricaelian II, destined ruler of all the land, and from that day he was given the reins to power. He was born to rule, and Aaron has waited more than a score of years for his chance to take the throne, and he continues to wait, bowing to his stubborn father's wishes and counting the days before the crown is laid upon his noble brow.

Even from young age Aaron seemed destined to rule. He had to learn his place, and his lessons just like any other boy, but from the very start he spoke with an innate authority, commanding both servants and men to do his bidding from the moment he could talk. His sharp wit, and blunt but intelligent nature was attractive to the other young children of the nobles and courtiers, and he never lacked friends, if that is the proper term for it. They were more his lackeys and entertainers than not else, tagging along because he told them too. Prince Aaron was always above them, beyond them, their better and leader. For this Aaron never had a proper companion, someone who he held as his equal, whose trust he kept and whose friendship was sacred.

Later in life Aaron became a huntsman. In his adolescent years he grew to be a competent tracker and hunter, able to knock and loose an arrow in good form, and thrust a spear into a charging boar with ease. His father always said if he had ever become as capable with a sword as he was at goring a boar with a spear, he would be the finest swordsman in the world. Instead Aaron focused his efforts in those years into falconry, tracking, and riding becoming a master at all three.

In recent years Aaron has possessed less and less time to indulge in his passions, being dragged by matters of state into work of a more diplomatic and militaristic nature. On his twenty-first birthday he was named Lord Commander of the Vanguard, given charge of all the forces of the kingdom's elite fighters, whose competence in battle far exceeded his own. Aaron wasn't entirely out of his element in a position of high command, though when sparring on the training field himself Aaron's weaknesses presented themselves in full. Fortunately for him his position availed him to the intricacies of supply, ceremony, and troop movement and less with swordsmanship and jousting.

Strengths: Aaron is a professional huntsman, there is no doubt about it. When it comes to spear and arrow his aim is true, and his thrust strong. When it comes to trailing a quarry on a misty night there is no better man to track the beast. Furthermore he excels in communication, diplomacy, and debate, showing himself to be a learned man of quick wits. He even enjoys the complications and power of leadership, accounting for all possibilities, ad thinking strategically. Aaron is a master of intrigue and maneuvering pawns to get what he most desires.

Weakness: Upon the tourney fields where bold men clash in a feat of arms Aaron is more apt to make a fool of himself, or be bested by a untested knight in the tilts, or a man-at-arms in the melee. Should Aaron ever engage against a competent swordsman and not a levied peasant in true battle he would find himself hard pressed to survive. The brutal roughness of combat was never his forte. In addition the crown prince has an acquired taste for the comforts of his station, and thoroughly avails himself in lavish fashion. In the grimy, realistic world he is out of place, and awkward, and when in a position of less importance he is always unsure of how to handle himself. Also, Aaron is not a charismatic or likable person. Most folk try to suck up to the noble prince, and as such he is unused to opposition from anyone other than his father. And beyond all that, there is an illness of the mind that plagues Aaron like a dark shadow. Gnawing at the corners of sanity, and eating away at his humanity, slowly, but surely consuming him.

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What is the most important thing to know about your character?
Prince Aaron is the crown prince, and deeply desires his birthright, and all the glory and honor and power that accompany it.

What is your character's greatest flaw?
He lacks a true friend. Someone who he could trust absolutely, and he is incapable of gaining one.

Why should your character be in a position to influence an entire country?
He is, the second most important person in the country.

The cold northern winds followed Prince Willum Aaron Tricaelian, the second of his name and his five companions down from the moorland and into the lows of Castaroc. Their horses’ breath rose in great plumes of steam, their iron shod hooves rattling on the stones hidden in the short grass. Prince Aaron sat comfortably upon a silver hunting mare, rising and falling with practiced grace as the beast trotted across the open ground. He was dressed in fine blue riding robes, in stark contrast to the other five. They were dressed in practical battle gear. Mail and plate and leather, with sharpened swords at their hips. On either side of Aaron rode two young squires, lads only slightly younger than him. One carried the proud banner of the King, and the other clutched polearm of olive wood, with a white flag dancing in the wind.

Just behind them rode two knights of the Vanguard and a mounted lancer. The knights were older men, with grey mustaches and silver hair, but the scars of battle were plain upon them, and they rode with a ruthless efficiency they marked them as dangerous men.

Aaron nodded approvingly, these two were no fools. Trusted consorts of the king and the veterans of countless conflicts. Sir Brennick Laysn himself was especially so, his resume chock full of noble deeds. He was named the Kings personal guard on numerous occasions, and he led the center charge in the battle of Wary Hill, singlehandedly turning the tide of a lost-thought skirmish. The other was Sir Alyan Nocks, a wise man who held the ear of any moot with his reason and wisdom. Should Aaron ever falter, he could count on the practical council of the nobleman.

Reining in his horse Aaron bid they stop, raising a gloved hand as seven riders rode to meet them. For the first time since the meet was arranged two days prior Aaron felt a stir of unease deep in his gut. These were hard men, dressed in full armor with spears and battle axes and war hammers. Not swords and banners as he expected. He felt almost naked amongst them, without any armor to speak up, and only an ornate ceremonial sword at his hip. Even a hauberk of mail would have been better than the linen finery he’d dawned in hopes to impress and intimidate Lord Royce.

The small line of opposing riders halted before Aaron’s own. The two parties sized each other up, and it could be seen in a second whose was more prepared for bloodshed should battle begin. Glancing over his shoulder Aaron saw the line of armored Vanguard horse waiting some nine hundred yards away, lances and armor glimmering in the midday light. They were ready should they be needed, but how long would it take heavy horse to charge all that way? He hoped not long.

Sir Brennick perhaps sensed his anxiety and leaned over his steed’s neck to whisper in Aaron’s ear. “Show not your fear my Prince, these are ruthless men, and Lord Royce is not among them as promised. If they sense your dread, they might even risk themselves in a vain attempt at glory by cutting off the head of our dragon.”

“You go too far sir.” Aaron snapped, sitting straighter in his saddle. “I do not fear these men!” He said it too loudly, and one of the knights facing him sniggered, spinning a mace and chain loosely in his gauntleted hand. Sir Brennick nodded sagely and withdrew, his hand resting on his sword hilt, eyeing the man who’d sniggered with ill-disguised malice.

One knight kicked his horse forward, closing the short gap between them so he could speak more easily. He was a wizened man, but sinewy and with an unsung toughness about him. Aaron did not recognize the sigil on his breastplate, but the charging rhino with the bloody horn on a field of violet made him more intimidating then Aaron would’ve ever thought possible of someone so old.

“Where is your salute sir knight?” One of Aaron’s squires challenged, raising higher the King’s banner. “You approach Prince Willum, of the royal house of Tricaelian! Lord Commander of the Vanguard, and the Crown Prince to the throne, to whom you have sworn oaths of fealty.”

“Indeed,” cried the knight, his voice gravely and deep. He threw up his hand, raising his visor with a sharp clink of a knightly salute. “I am sir Grent, retainer of Lord Royce upon whose noble lands you’ve marched this army.” Sir Grent spoke of the host to Aaron’s flank. One hundred knights of the Vanguard, twice as many mounted lances and near three thousand men-at-arms, all armed and ready for a prolonged siege.

Knowing it was his time Aaron spurred his mare, riding her forward until he stood less than a meter in front of the Sir Grent, just out of range of the wicked looking spiked hammer that rested easily in his lap. “Your lord has broken his vows, and fled the king’s justice raising his levies and fortifying his castle against pursuit.” Aaron recited, the memorized speech flowing awkwardly off his tongue. Reaching into his saddle bags Aaron produced a scroll, sealed in wax and marked with the royal sigil. “He has named me Lord Commander of the Vanguard and his armies, and has charged me to bring due justice to Lord Royce and all his household and all vassals who interfere. Furthermore, all those who took part in the slaughter the Vanguard knights of Sir Catin, and Sir Howfield who sought the king’s justice before I, shall be executed as traitors. All the lands, holdings and incomes of Lord Royce and the appropriate vassals shall be appropriated wi-”

“Ye hear that lads?” Sir Grent interrupted, turning back to speak to his six fellows. “The little rooster said all those who partook, that means he wants to execute us for stringing up those cocky fools who marched in here before demanding our lord’s head. I say we must’ve pricked the king’s royal behind then. Mayhap even killing his favorite noblemen if he cares to hunt us for that little thing.”

Aaron flushed an angry red, his teeth grinding in fury. Who was this knight to speak to him in such crass manner? Did he desire death so? “Still your tongue you ignoble sir.” He growled, wishing he could strike the old man in his yellowed teeth. “I am the Crown Prince, you would do well for yourself to listen as I state the terms, it is possible for you to be shown mercy.”

“Quite right boy, finish your foolish rambling whenever you like.”

“Excuse me!?”

“You have babble and boring nonsense to say, you may finish.” Sir Grent’s eyes were piercing, and Aaron reached for his sword.

“My Prince!” Sir Alyan warned. “We ride under the olive banner of truce! For honor’s sake control yourself!” Seething Aaron released his sword hilt taking ahold of his reins once more. The old sir Grent smiled, he hadn’t flinched in the slightest and he was watching Aaron with deadly eyes. Aaron could only see red.

“I was made aware we would speak with Lord Royce directly... Sir.”

“Lord Royce is six years old.” Grent replied, his voice cold as ice. “You murdered his father in the capitol, and hung his head on a spike. And now you demand the corpse of an innocent child as well. From the moment I heard such wickedness I knew it was my time, and those brave defenders knew it was theirs as well. For once I might speak true to you royal peacocks, you craven kings behind your great armies and walls and spells. I spit in your direction, your father is filth, and your mother a whore, and you child, are rooster; not but a crowing bastard in lion’s fur. Might you rot in the deepest pits of hell. As regent of these lands I reject your demands, any and all of them. You shall have the young Lord Royce over my corpse, and the corpses of all the noble men who still have honor in their hearts. I assure you, prince, Lord Royce shall be bought by a steep price in the blood of your men, and perhaps I might win him his justice with your head sent back to your father in a basket!”

Unable to control himself further Aaron drew and slashed. Sir Grent looked nonplused leaning back in his saddle, the steel tip of Aaron’s blade leaving a thin scratch on his chest plate. Then as Aaron’s blade swung wide, he reposted with all the power and grace of years of battle training, bringing his hammer down upon Aaron’s horse’s skull. The mare convulsed, its head exploding into gore and filth as Aaron was thrown from his seat. Behind them a great roar erupted as one hundred Vanguard knights surged down the slope, a hundred war lances dipping in the charge. Just behind Aaron the squire and knight quintet drew swords and leveled banners, spurring their horses forward to protect their prince. Alone, unsupported by any oncoming charge of mounted knights of their own the six knights who’d accompanied Grent advanced into Aaron’s tiny honor guard to aid their ancient leader, waving maces, axes, and swords overhead as they charged.

In a moment all was chaos.

Aaron was surrounded by a forest of stamping hooves as the twelve men battled. five desperate to defend their unhorsed prince, seven intent upon slaying him in a suicidal search for justice. Aaron could not tell what was happening, whether his men were winning or dying. He tried to pick himself up out of the grass, his head ringing. He was blinded by his mare’s blood. Close by a man screamed, something thudded heavy next to him. Someone shouted his name.

Wiping the gore from his eyes Aaron found he was lying next to his squire, the lad who held olive branched flag. The lad’s face had been smashed in, eviscerated by a mace. Reaching out Aaron dragged the boy’s body close, prying the banner from his death grip. The olive wood shaft was tipped with a wicked spike, ornate and impractical but a weapon that could unseat a mounted warrior all the same. Struggling to his feet Aaron tried to assess the situation, seeing in an instant that the battle went against him. Sir Brennick was facing two men at once, his sword flashing expertly as he parried and thrust. Sir Alyan was fighting Sir Grent, locked together they rode about in sharp circles each trying to knock the other from their saddle. The remaining squire was doing well for himself, having killed a man on the charge, but was now harried by a knight near twice his age and size. The lancer was dead, a dagger plunged deep into his eye.

Sir Grent’s sharp gaze found Aaron, standing afoot, with not but a short-spiked banner to protect himself. Parrying a heavy blow from Sir Alyan, Sir Grent swung around the other’s guard, slamming his hammer hard into the old man’s back. Sir Alyan convulsed, a confused expression on his face before he toppled from his saddle to lay still face down in the grass. Digging his spurs into his horse’s flank Sir Grent’s destrier reared and charged, the knight’s war hammer raised high to bring crashing down on the young prince’s head.

For a moment the world seemed to grow still, as if everything moved in slow motion. Aaron braced his feet, grasping the olivewood banner like a hunting spear, imagining the horse a fearsome boar, and Sir Grent, he was the beast’s salivating tusks. When the time came, and the monster was but a hairsbreadth from ripping the Prince apart Aaron crouched low and thrust. His strike was true, his strike was strong, and the olivewood snapped asunder. Grent’s hammer swished past his head, missing by inches and the old knight was thrown from his horse high into the air as the animal screamed and died. Aaron collapsed onto his back once more his hands splintered from the explosion of wood. Something hard pressed into his back. He rolled over discovering his sword, lying where he’d dropped it. Taking up the weapon he jumped back onto his feet. The battle was far from over.

Just in front of him Sir Grent staggered to gain his footing. Somehow, he’d kept ahold of his hammer and was already charging the prince. Struggling to comprehend how the old man had recovered from being thrown so quickly Aaron back peddled. Desperately knocking aside Sir Grent’s swings. The man attacked like a furious bear pummeling Aaron to the ground, snapping his ornate sword and knocking the useless hilt from his grasp. Aaron threw up a hand, shocked by the fury of this man; death seemed so very close. “Stop, no! I yield!” But there was no mercy in Sir Grent’s eyes.

For a moment the hammer raised, Sir Grent stared down at Aaron, helpless and at his mercy. He readied himself to deal the death blow. Aaron could only stare, his mouth dry with fear. Then the next moment in a rush of steel, flesh, and blood Sir Grent was gone.

The Vanguard had arrived!

Charging into the melee the hundred knights killed the remaining enemy in seconds, their lances punching through armor and mail, their horses riding down those who tried to flee. One knight, an older man by the name of Sir Iben leapt from his horse rushing over to where Prince Aaron sat, his eyes wide as saucers. The knight began pulling off Aaron’s clothes, patting the young prince down looking for any injuries. “My prince, my prince!” He cried, his eyes showing the terror he felt. “You are drenched in blood!”

“It is not my own,” Aaron assured him, stopping the knight from disrobing him utterly. “I do not hurt,” that was untrue. Everything hurt. His hands were filled with olivewood splinters, his arms were numbed from Sir Grent’s blows, his head rang from where he’d struck it when he’d fallen from his horse. Sir Iben was right to be worried though, Aaron was drenched in blood, his fine robes stained near black from its excess. A parting gift from the dying horses, not his own.

“Let us return to camp...” Aaron said, wincing as the knight helped him to his feet. “We shall continue the siege on the morrow.”

Name: Alexander Markos

Race/Faction: Undecided

Age: 24

Description: Alexander has tanned skin from his days spent in the sun at sea. He has black hair cut short and slight stubble on his jaw. Alexander's eyes are Hazel, with a glint of mischief. He stands at a respectable 5'10", and weighs about 170 lbs. During the average day, he wears soft boots and leather pants. While at sea he typically copies the other sailors and wears no shirt, that does not mean he can't dress respectably. For political functions, he typically wears decorative leather armor with silver accents.

Alexander after being at sea for a while. (closest to what I was thinking.)
"Class": Earl of a southern province

Motivation: Alexander believes that the people of the kingdom are the true heart of the nation. While he doesn't want a bloody rebellion to rip apart the nation he so dearly loves, he believes changes must be made. He wants to pass peaceful reforms to control the monarchs and even believes that a council of lords should be organized to deal with the day to day business of the kingdom. While not truly believing in democracy he thinks that the people need more of a voice since they are the ones that know the struggles they are going through.

History: Alexanders father had been a successful military leader and believed that all men in an army had equal importance, including the commander. He had drilled this into Alexander at a very young age and the boy believed it fanatically. His father would find him helping the maid clean dishes and the gardener rake the leaves. His father's city loved him, and he was like the cities son. He was never afraid to talk to a new person no matter what they looked like. He wrestled with the city boys, getting just as filthy as the rest of them.

When he was about 15 his father was called on to lead troops to deal with a small peasant uprising. That was the first time Alexander saw battle. No, it wasn't a battle, it was a massacre. The peasants were not prepared for the highly professional army his father maintained or the ruthlessness they showed. The peasants had charged the army in a frenzy. It was obvious who would win but they refused to disarm and surrender. It was over within 10 minutes, with very few deaths on his father's side. The peasants were an entirely different story, the villages they came from were put to the torch and families split up. They were sent to all different corners of the kingdom never to see their loved ones again.

After the campaign, Alexander began to take up the hobby of sailing. He would be gone for weeks at a time only stopping home to gather crew and supplies. He couldn't be near his father or that dammed city. Those people who were okay with what was happening in the kingdom, to their nation. Three years ago Alexander returned to the news that his father was dead, and he was the new lord of the fief. He immediately became racked with guilt for abandoning his father, for not being there when he died. He became determined to fix the kingdom, but not through death. He decided he would lead by example and began implementing policies to improve the life of his citizens. He has created a council of citizens to run his city, while he focuses on running the countryside. Even though he hates the death of innocent peasants he has no qualms about killing those who hurt people.

Strengths:
Tactician: While he hates to admit it he is a brilliant military commander much like his father.
Sailor: Still spending much time at sea he is a great sailor and competent navigator.
Inspires Loyalty: His soldiers are fanatically loyal because he stands and fights on the front lines with them and won't make them do anything he wouldn't do himself.
Soldier: To call him a duelist would hurt the feelings of any real sword master. What Alexander does is best for the dirty confusing mess that is a battlefield. He uses a collection of dirty tricks and brute force attacks.

Weakness:
Terrible Liar: Alexander is a terrible liar and politician. He would rather punch a manipulative lord than talk with him.
Merciful: While he is an intelligent commander he has fears of repeating what his father did, so he takes unnecessary risks to let the enemy surrender.

What is the most important thing to know about your character?
Alexander believes that an open rebellion is a stupid idea and will fight against it if civilians are caught in the crossfire. He is fiercely loyal to his country and wants to improve it, not destroy it.

What is your character's greatest flaw?
He does everything he can to avoid the massacre at his father's hands. He will avoid death even at risk to himself unless the enemy has harmed innocent civilians and done wrong according to him.

Why should your character be in a position to influence an entire country?
He is a powerful man in control of one of the largest ports in the Kingdom and maintains one of the few professional armies.

"HEAVE, HEAVE, HEAVE" For the last three hours that had been the only noise that any of the sailors could hear. That and the sound of their oars hitting the water of course. Alexander was rowing along with the rest of his crew, straining with every pull of the oar. It had been his mistake that had caused them to stray off course in the first place. They had been planning to rendezvous with some of the other ships from the harbor for a race. Alexander was sure he had aligned his map correctly, but his first mate had picked up on his mistake....after they had been sailing for 4 hours. The mistake was small, but even one such as this put them leagues away from their meeting point. Even worse is that the wind was now blowing into the bow of the ship causing the sail to be useless. Alexander had felt terrible because now his crew would have hours of hard rowing ahead of them. He had walked over to one of the oarsmen and told him he would row for him for an hour. Ever since then he had been switching with a different rower on the turn of the hour. It was his mistake, so he had to pay for it just like his crew had to even though they didn't make the mistake. He heard his skipper call rest and glanced behind him and saw the masts of the ships they were to meet.

Alexander jumped over the railing of the ship the captains had decided to gather on. They were all in a circle getting drunk from a cask of ale in the center of them. From the looks of things this wasn't the first cask either, and probably won't be the last. Alexander nudged one of the men aside and sat down between two of the captains. He grabbed a mug and filled it with the rum and took a long drink from it, almost emptying it.
"About time you got here, we almost thought you had gone and gotten yourself sunk or something." The man speaking to Alexander was Old Gibbs, he was a smuggler and perhaps the most loved person on the coastline. He was a kind man and kept his prices low, and even paid his taxes. Alexander had met the man when he first began sailing and thought of him as an Uncle more than anything.

"Just got a little off course, nothing we couldn't handle. I am just hurt you boys began drinking without me."

"Aye, and we almost started the race without you. We were just worried you would put us in the stockades for slighting you, my Lord."

As Gibbs said those last words he grinned and performed a clumsy bow, almost falling over because how drunk he was. Everyone on the boat knew Alexander would do such thing, they all just enjoyed messing with the Earl because he knew how to take a joke.

"I would have done it too you dirty crimi-."

Alexander tried to sound menacing but broke up into a laughing fit before he could finish the sentence. He was old friends with all the men on the ship, no with all the men in their little fleet. Alexander rose from his position and stretched out.

"We better begin getting ready for the race, my steward probably is buying poison to kill me this instant."
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The race had been fairly successful, but not as much as he would have liked. His ship had come in third, and it was all because of his mistake. The last stretch of the race had been against the wind and his already tired crew couldn't keep up with the fresh me on the other ships. They had all said their farewells to each other cheerily. Alexander's ship began their slow journey back to port just after nightfall. Everyone on the ship was exhausted, so Alexander was taking the long way back to the port so he had the wind at his sails for a longer amount of time.

As she glided over the water she looked nothing like the warship she truly was. The ram was barely visible below the waterline only producing a slight ripple in the water a few feet ahead of the ship. Alexander had modified her over the years to fit his own needs. That meant taking much of the armor off and making her waterline higher, so she was faster. This probably what made the pirates confident enough to attack a ship flying the Earl's flag. Normally the Hawk and Spear were enough to frighten off any raiders planning to attack a ship flying it. Alexander was notorious for his crusade against pirates. This included building 20 ships from an older design from the south he had learned of while on one of his trips. They seemed to be knives cutting through the water, utilizing 40 oars to achieve incredible speed. They had been crushing the pirates and ruining their business. Most pirates had left Alexander's waters, but some still remained.

The pirates had crept up on their "prey" seemingly unnoticed hoping to catch it unawares. As they drew up next to the ship they threw up grappling hooks then waited quietly for a second if an alarm would be sent up. They began climbing and became more confident, believing they were about to capture an easy prize. As they pulled themselves up onto the deck they were met with a site they had not been expecting. A young man was standing right in front of them with a naked sword in his hand, ready and prepared. What was more terrifying was that about twenty heavily armed men were right behind them wearing the armor of naval marines. The young man looked towards the man who had led the climb up the ladder and gave him a determined look.

"Surrender now and you will be tried fairly in court."

The pirates looked at each other confused at what to do till one of them shouted, "I am not rotting in a jail cell!!" The man charged the young man sword swinging wildly. As he came close Alexander tossed the sword towards the enemies face. His opponent dodged the throw quickly glancing at it as it passed by him. That was his biggest mistake, Alexander closed the distance between him and the man lightning fast and gripped the pirate's sword arm while headbutting the man in the nose. The pirate fell backward tears crawling into his vision as Alexander rushed forward keeping near the falling man. The pirate stumbled to regain his footing, but Alexander swiped at one of the man's legs knocking it out from under him. He twisted the pirate's arm until he dropped his sword. Alexander quickly grabbed it and held it to the man's throat.

"I'll ask you one more time. Surrender."

The pirate's hands shot up and he nodded. The engagement had lasted all of 7 seconds, and the pirates knew they were outmatched. The Pirates dropped their swords and raised their hands in surrender. Not a single man resisted the entire trip back to port.