[hider=Gwilym] [B]Name:[/B] Gwilym of House Ironarm [B]Race:[/B] Nordo-Brettic [B]Age:[/B] 25 [B]Birthsign:[/b] The Lover [B]Family Origins:[/B] Born in Jehanna to Lord Marshal Braegen and Lady Marille, stripped of his titles and birthright after disgracing the House [hider=Appearance][img]https://i.imgur.com/tqTFd3p.jpg[/img] Gwilym cuts the image of a handsome noble’s firstborn son, of hearty stock used to swinging swords and hefting shields on the fields of battle. His broad shoulders droop more often than not though, and the muscle in his arms has shrunk a bit since his last fencing lesson. He still overtops 6 feet by a good 6 inches like his father, though, no matter how much he’d like to shrink himself out of sight sometimes. In public, he puts on the best show he can, thrusting his chest out and walking with a purposeful stride. Catch him in those lonely moments and that pretty face droops.[/hider] [hr] [B]Personality:[/B] Gwilym strikes those who are around him as a polite and kind man at best, and at his worst, an insolent and mischievous imp. Depending on what mood he finds himself in upon waking could mean all the difference between the two. He’d like to think he cuts the image of a handsome and rakish gentleman, though only those who live outside his head could tell what he really comes off as. If you were to ask him, he’d tell you he’s a gentleman looking only for a good time. He plays up his best qualities that are among those he could choose from, those being his affinity for wine and women, the ability to flirt in all manner of ways that has led to his reputation as a rampant adulterer and home wrecker, as well as the traditionally good- the ability to maintain a stiff upper lip in public and possess at least an iota of good manners. Dig beneath the surface, and it takes quite some time, and you’ll find under the smooth shell to be a turbulent place filled with regrets and doubts. What is a man without a few? For all the goblets toasted with, there are two bottles downed in seclusion. For all the women bedded, there was always the one person he loved that he could never have. For all the whoops and hollers he’s let loose in a party while in a daze, there a hundred-hundred stifled sobs. Gwilym was always different. Prone to pick up the quill rather than the sword, prone to being a sensitive, rather than a stoic. Perhaps the divide between him and his father hurt the man as much as he hurt Gwilym. Perhaps not, and that isn’t a question he’s meaning to ask any time soon. In any town or village he steps into, he comes with a tide of merriment and mirth. A good singing voice and a fine taste in drink has made him many short-lived friends, as he’s usually gone with the rising sun. When the great stage of those times dies down and the show is over, he resigns himself to more lonesome activities in a grey solitude. In any one of the duels he’s lost for money, there’s a certain look in his eye beforehand. If you were to tap his head and see the thoughts drip out, there’d be a morbid hope in there that the latest duel might be his last ever. He’s more prone to drown out the world by doing his best to drown himself in wine nowadays. But damn, does his laugh sound so merry, his voice so light, and his eyes so full of life and lust... [hr] [B]History:[/B] Gwilym was born to Lady Marille and Lord Braegan of House Ironarm, loyal defenders of the throne and the realm of the Kingdom of Jehanna. For generations, the Ironarms raised their sons to be as tough and hearty as their old Nordic ties to the first old warlords that came to High Rock. The two sons of the generation to come after their fathers were expected to not break this tradition, and so from the time they could walk, Gwilym and Desmond were put to work learning how to ride a warhorse, joust, and swing a blade. Gwilym took to it quicker than Desmond, and Desmond took to it quicker than most. As the siblings trained together, they grew close in their bond, often playing Knight when their lessons in the blade, horsemanship, literature, mathematics, and other such subjects important to the nobility were done for the day. Leading an insular life had made them close, one another being the only friends they were allowed to have for the longest time. They spent their every waking moments together. On Gwilym’s thirteenth Name Day, he is presented with the girl he is to marry, a beautiful specimen of Breton nobility. Though Gwilym held no knowledge of the weight of marriage, his father and Seville’s shake on it like two men agreeing to breed the best of their racehorses. Such is life in the nobility, and Gwilym carries on. Desmond, however, finds more friends among Seville’s family. As siblings do when they age, they grew apart, and Gwilym was happy to see Desmond making more friends that weren’t his elder brother. No matter that it pained him to spend less time with the brother he so loved. But Desmond was not the only one to have Seville’s family members grow fond of him. Gwilym’s eyes snagged on Seville’s elder brother. He found himself admiring the other boy from afar, not knowing why he had such a fixation on him, and there was something in the way their eyes met when they finally did that made Gwilym’s cheeks red and warm. The two families went their separate ways after the deal was finalized, and Gwilym found after sharing a sparse few words of parting with Seville’s older brother, whose name was Artur he’d learned, that the two of them wished very much to meet again. After that day, Gwilym could never go a long time without thinking of Artur. He wondered when next they’d meet, and what they would do when they did. Perhaps Artur liked fencing too, or would it be poetry? Gwilym was never good at that, so maybe Artur could teach him some things about it. No matter what it was, Gwilym knew he’d have fun. In the meantime, Gwilym and Desmond drilled on the fields with the Table Knights and Sergeants, spent time scribbling the words of great and old writers on parchment, and practicing mathematics. Gwilym was never good at anything that wasn’t to do with martial prowess, and Desmond’s exceeding in such went unnoticed by their gruff father. Lord Braegen’s position as Lord Marshal was well-earned, and a man like that surely favored only one thing in his sons- a talent for fighting, and the one who possessed it. Surely, that fact didn’t help Gwilym and Desmond’s growing apart. As they grew older and earned more autonomy with age, Desmond would frequent the training halls and tutoring libraries less and less, trading those pastimes with that of drinking and whoring. Lord Braegen quickly found that Desmond’s behavior was becoming a blight upon House Ironarm in the eyes of not only their fellow Houses, but of the commoners. It would just not do to have an unwashed peasant stepping over his absolute better face-down in the gutter when sun went down. Gwilym’s father disowned Desmond in every way but formally, laughing bitterly at his wayward son’s acting out, and often in his face in those seldom moments you could see him haunting the halls like a ghoul, moaning as he nursed another hangover. Even so, Gwilym and Desmond attended the fencing tournaments held yearly in Jehanna as per tradition of keeping up their reputation with the lesser Houses and the public. Gwilym and Desmond were always at odds, the two seeming evenly matched until they faced each other. On those occasions, Gwilym would arise the victor, perhaps taking too much joy in the crowd’s cheering of his name. Had he been more mature, he may have been a better winner. And a better brother. But for the first time, he had his father’s blessings, and something that at least resembled love. Approval, at the very least. It was around this time that Gwilym and Artur would inevitably meet during the tournaments, celebrating their wins and forgetting their losses both in each other’s arms when the sun went down. It was during the first time they’d seen each other since Gwilym’s engagement to Seville that the two of them learned much about each other. They had more things in common than they’d thought, and Gwilym had thought a lot on it. On one fateful night, Gwilym and Artur walk the streets in a drunken stupor, holding each other a bit too familiarly when Desmond spots them. In a rage, his brother challenges Artur to a duel, and in his drunken bravado Artur accepts. The two fight, but it does not end at first blood as Desmond gains the upper hand, knocking Artur unconscious and going for yet another blow with his sword. Gwilym, not wanting Artur dead by his brother’s hand, leaps to action. He lays low his own brother, spitting him with his dagger before he’s knocked to sleep as well by Desmond’s strong, heavy hands. It is the last thing he remembers of that night before he awakens again with the rising sun. He is in bed, not in the streets. His father mourns Desmond’s life, his youngest son laid low by none other than Artur. Gwilym knows the truth. Gwilym keeps his mouth shut. He can not take the guilt, the weight of his own brother’s life on his shoulders. Artur is to stand trial for his crime. Instead of outing Gwilym as the murderer, he accepts his fate and pleads his guilt. He is hanged the next morning, and Gwilym packs his essentials that night. He leaves no note, says no goodbyes, only slips past the guards and stows away on the first ship out from Jehanna, going to any port. Gwilym wanders further and further southward. He finds a place in Elsweyr, enjoying the comforts of the Khajiit that call that place their home. Wine, moon sugar, the occasional Imperial or Breton traveler that would share a bed with him. There would come a time when the septims he ran away with would be all spent, and so he asked for loans. It wasn’t long until he found himself in debt to the Renrijra Krin, among many other bad people. He took his cue that he’d overstayed his welcome in Elsweyr, and crossed the border into Valenwood first chance he got... [B]Biggest Regret:[/B] Perhaps being born the way he was. If women and wine were the cure, he’d have been well three times over by now, he reckons. Never being able to tell Artur he was sorry for everything. Sorry that he’d saved his life only for it to be taken away in the end. Or perhaps sullying his brother’s name, driving him away when he needed love the most. Hells, it’s hard to keep count anymore. [B]Gwilym‘s Goal:[/B] Gwilym doesn’t have many goals. Bed a woman? Live long enough to bed another, and have some wine in the meantime? Find someone who could beat him in a duel, and beat him bad? [hr] [B]Skills:[/B] [b]Expert:[/b] One-Handed [b]Adept:[/b] Sneak, Alteration, Illusion [b]Novice:[/b] Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Acrobatics [b]Spells:[/b] Clairvoyance Calm Muffle Oakflesh Stoneflesh Candlelight [B]Equipment:[/B] His long steel, a rapier of elven Moonstone with intricate basket-work His short steel, a dagger of the same material a little longer than his forearm, finger-rings above the pommel for a choice in grip His clothes consist of a brown longcoat worn over a green cloth shirt, tucked into black trousers. He keeps his trousers tightly bloused into his Colovian leather boots. All of his clothes may be of expensive tailoring, but the age and wear shows when inspected closely. [B]Misc. Possessions:[/B] He keeps the ring Artur gave him suspended on a chain around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt. Three days’ rations A few maps of the local area and country Flint and steel Boot polish Sewing kit Beard oil and comb Trimming scissors A mirror Hairbrush Whetstones of different roughness Bedroll - all kept in a traveling pack [/hider]