[hider=Jethec Ardozhian][u][b]Name:[/b][/u] Jethec Ardozhian

[u][b]Sex:[/b][/u] Male

[u][b]Appearance:[/b][/u] [hider=This man, of average height and meaty build, wears his hair in long, greasy ropes, but his face neatly shaved.
He has doughy cheeks, wormy lips, a lump of a nose, and mean, hollowed eyes.][center][img]https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/010/016/666/large/jarek-nocon-thief.jpg?1522105330[/img][/center][/hider]
[u][b]Age:[/b][/u] 34

[u][b]Fighting Style(s):[/b][/u] Jethec ain't exactly acquainted with the jousts and melees of song. In fact he doesn't really like to humor "foes" at all, but prey, who did not know that he was there til the boys had already struck. He feels naked standing in open formation with the other soldiers. But he has received barely-adequate sword and crossbow training via the city watch's captains, improving upon what he had already known of these weapons. He can win, but he'll have fought dirty to do so; he makes impromptu weapons of the terrain and also hides weapons on his person. Dirt, foliage, coins, nearly anything can give him an edge in the right scenario.

[b][u]Equipment:[/u][/b] His crossbow, quarrels, sword (a [url=https://www.wulflund.com/img/goods/en/medium/thorpe_falchion_england_norwich_sword_replica_stage_combat_b.jpg]falchion[/url]), hauberk, and kettlehat are all standard-issue. He also carries a small warhammer, useful in a pinch as a tool as well as a weapon. But Jethec wears his own bracers, his own boots (well broken in, and softer in the soles), as well as his own lockpicks and [url=https://mcishop.azureedge.net/mciassets/w_5_0032198_renaissance-era-main-gauche_415.png]poignard[/url]. The knife is a good deal more sophisticated than the rest of his kit, featuring both engravings and a precious metal hilt.

[b][u]Biography:[/u][/b] Wulcis was a relatively insignificant member of House Ostogard; a third or fourth son, maybe of a cadet branch. He could not expect a big inheritance; an estate; an esteemed position like general or castellan or guildmaster among his father's cronies. Wulcis had only a suit of armor, a big fucking sword, and a nonchalance about the honor and esteem of his house. Being so equipped, he seemingly had no choice but to humiliate his father and tarnish the family legacy, and he just so happened to take to banditry as his method of choice. His petty nobility protected him from the wrath of the emperor and his corrupt court, just as his steel protected him from blades and arrows, so Wulcis took to terrorizing the roads of his own brother's shire. He also gathered more misfits along the way, adding them to his handful of house knights. This is how Jethec, technically, came under the employ of a nobleman, a fact he keeps ready for anyone fool enough to think that he will tell the whole truth. (Everyone had to forget someone, backstab someone, leave someone behind to make it past the walls.)

The Undeath struck on one such a day, of sitting in the mud along a little road a few days out from Tarne, waiting for caravans and the odd pilgrim. The whole band made it to the city in time, having been warned by the sight of a courier, still bleeding, racing past their ambush, even ignoring their bows nocked and knives drawn. Something far deadlier than they must have been giving chase, they realized in good time, that their predation seemed of so little consequence to this man. Well, Wulcis of House Ostogard was already quite infamous in Tarne, and he and the fellows accompanying him were all cut down when the guards cornered them in some tavern or other, that big sword catching on the chandelier. But Jethec, and the other clever ones, they absconded down their alleys of choice, trickling back into the crowds of refugees. They laid low, picked up honest work and some alibis. Most of these men are still kicking around Tarne today, pretending they don't have a past.

It's well and good to be a nice guy while the going is easy. But when the king orders the gates shut, when more food has been eaten and shat out by the day, when the city runs dry of even basic amenities, a man's neighbors sour faster than milk in the sun. They will always—always—choose their families over their friends; former drinking buddies and even war-comrades will eat each other, given enough days of staring at a wall waiting for death. Thus, every smart tenement employs a [i]featherfinger[/i] from among its residents: a man (or two) to keep the whole block that slightest bit better-fed than it would be without. Jethec is one such mercenary. When the city is doing well for itself he patrols its walls and alleys as a town watch; he keeps order in the streets, and cleans them of the riots, the other thieves. But in lean times he joins their ranks, breaking into the same storehouses and supply depots he is paid to keep free of such vermin. Quite convenient, in its way. Jethec can relive the old days of taking what he wants, when it suits him; collect an honest ration (and hurt the competition) when it don't. Some things never change. Long as he don't get caught. Maybe a jackal can eat lettuce when enough of his ribs are poking through but you can't teach him to like it.

Tarne, meanwhile, rides the winds of change. The chant on the streets tells of conspiracies from the castle. Expeditions leaving the cities, looking to end whatever necromancer or great demon had summoned this invasion, erasing the plague for good. Some men stand in line to volunteer; others, like Jethec, are "volunteered" on their own behalf. Seems bad luck don't change much neither.[/hider]