[hider=The Knight Of The River][list]
[*][b][u]Name:[/u][/b] Druncarde "Of The River"
[*][b][u]Age:[/u][/b] 27
[*][b][u]Gender:[/u][/b] Male
[*][b][u]Race:[/u][/b] Human
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[*][b][u]Appearance:[/u][/b] At 5'6", it's more than fair to assume one might be unwieldy under the turbulence of war - yet what he lacks in size, the former farmhand makes up for in strength, carrying a deceptively muscular frame beneath modest attire; Heavy black eyebrows rest plaintively beneath a widow's peak of fuzzy, pitch-black hair, and a short, bushy beard covers the olive skin of his rounded chin. Lazy umber eyes greet the world with a placid reflection, as if to cut conversation down to a convenient minimal.
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[*][b][u]Personality:[/u][/b] Still waters run deep, or so the saying goes - and if any man were to reflect this sentiment, it would surely be the Knight Of The River. Soft-spoken in nature, with a voice like a house cat and his mind a labyrinth of philosophical pondering, mellow musing and quaint quandary, he replies only when spoken to and never more than anyone else need care to know. Generosity he repays in small thanks, disrespect with suspicious absence of malice, and intelligence with equal parts honor and envy; Druncarde is only one to mind another if they mind him, and anyone unlucky enough to get stuck scouting with him would have better luck coercing song with the birds than idle, "useless" conversation from this warrior of whispers. His unofficial motto: Stoop to Conquer.
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[*][b][u]Brief Backstory:[/u][/b] Druncarde is no one to judge; Born the third son to peasants, he was forced to seek his fortune fighting for the realm at an early age, entering into service as a Footman at 18. Over subsequent years of duty, he accrued prestige (Sergeant) and a reputation for integrity, modesty, and an ear like that of a well trained hound. When the War of the Red Flag broke out in full, Druncarde lost the remnants of his heritage to blood and fire - and lacking any proper place to call home, he declared himself nameless until such a time as he would make his own. As luck would have it, diligence in battle rewards even the poorest of souls, and Druncarde would gain his knighthood at the aptly named Red Crossing, a thin stretch of rocky river forded by several stone works, and over which he would strike down not one, not two, but three particularly exemplary knights of the Phoran rear guard. The battle earned him his title, but for the sake of humility, he refrained from any further glories; Time has only elevated a desire in him to return to humbled roots.
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[*][b][u]Equipment:[/u][/b] Though modest of character, Druncarde's vanity is plastered in full over a head-to-toe set of steel plate, coated bright orange with paint and embellished with ocean-blue details of a crescent moon, twinkling stars, and more than a handful of "sea-goats" dancing about between them. In his left hand he prefers an ash spear with a long, narrow spike adorning its head - the better for puncturing gaps behind the knee, between the groin and the inner thigh, under the armpit, or through the visor or throat. In his right he touts a shield as garish as his harness - a towering kite layered in birch, hide and steel, before finishing with a coat of equally engaging orange and topped with three blue horns painted to look as if they curl about each other. Tucked neatly away at the small of his back lies a strapped pouch for less violent, but equally personal belongings; Attached to his waist dangles a smooth, aged shillelagh...as a backup in case his primary tool isn't persuasive enough for the particularly brazen foe.
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[*][b][u]Skills:[/u][/b] Violence has taught Druncarde the boundless values of subtlety, and as such he is adept at paying close attention to the environment around him, allowing him to use the slightest weakness as his winning exploit. In combat, he prefers not so much to use the terrain as to become it - wearing down enemies from a distance, and only choosing to strike once he's persuaded them that they're winning. Lessons learned from a lifetime of internal solitude allow him to bend easily with the shifting of the wind, and his ability to blend in with his surroundings has saved him more than once from breaking to the metaphorical torrents of man-made storms. In his spare time he values art and craftsmanship, and enjoys woodworking scenes from life; small figurines may occasionally find themselves scattered about the premises wherever he goes, reflecting the lives and livelihoods observed there.
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