Images: Masked, Unmasked, Portrait
Height: 5'9"
Description:
Slightly taller than average height, Chance is a slender man with an athletic build and pale skin, having dark brown hair and piercing grey eyes. He has scars from numerous scrapes and near-misses, as well as a broken nose from a bar fight early in his career. His right ear has a notch from a knife-fighting incident.

When dressed, he prefers to wear a broad-brimmed leather hat and dark clothes replete with a long, well-used black cloak to hide in the shadows.

Name: Chance Blackbriar
Aliases: Honest Jack, That Rat Bastard, Will Tanner
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Rogue

Personality:
Chance is a cunning, self-assured rogue who is justifiably confident in his abilities. Honed by years of experience and practice, Chance has seldom been caught, and prefers to use his wits and skills to get out of any problem. He can be an intimidating bandit one moment and a charming friend the next. His reasons for thievery are simple; in a way, he's sharing the wealth - after all, why should the tiny few bastards born into wealth be the only ones to live a good life? He's simply trying to enjoy life as it comes, and if some fat purse happens to get a little thinner in the process, then who's to say it's wrong?

Surprisingly, Chance even has something of a moral code. He doesn't steal from those in need, and he doesn't hurt defenseless women or children. In fact, he prefers to not shed blood unless absolutely necessary; killing people needlessly may improve your intimidation factor, but it also invites all sorts of problems from the law.

He also has his downsides. Chance likes to live large, and for someone whose livelihood relies on stealth and cunning, he can be rather indiscrete with his winnings. He's also overconfident, and likes to make gambles (I mean, who else would try robbing the castle of a powerful vampire lord?!) that often land him in trouble. He can be quick to gain a fortune and yet lose it all inside of a week, either because of a miscalculated wager or because he spent it all. No sense in hoarding gold, I mean, where's he going to keep it all?

He also likes to affect being more posh and refined as part of his heroic bandit persona, but a more educated person can catch him in his pretensions rather quickly.

Likes:

• The reputation of being a notorious bandit famous rogue. You'd be surprised how many people welcome a bandit and the tales he has to tell, provided you haven't personally wronged them.
• Good food and good drink. Basically, any quick luxuries that enough coin can get you.
• A good game of chance, whether cards or other. Though he often does try to "even the odds" a bit in his favor.

Dislikes:

• The downsides of having the reputation of a notorious bandit famous rogue. Like the fact some people may try to collect on the bounty attached to your head.
• Tanneries. Dear gods, the smell of piss and turpentine is going to haunt me till the day I die.

Backstory:
I was born to the streets, a shadow forgotten among the masses, forced to steal what I need to-

Wait, you're not buying that? Oh come on, I worked myself up to a decent flow trying to come up with this stuff! You want the real story? Fine, be a spoilsport, I guess.

My real name was William "Will" Tanner, born to Avasni, a small township that was little more than a halfway stop between two major cities, with little going for it. My father was the village tanner, and when he wasn't drinking up the profits I dare say he was a half-way decent father to me and my four younger siblings. He left most of the parenting to my mother; poor woman was a saint to put up with him, don't know what she saw in him honestly, but you know how marriages are sacrosanct in these small towns, so it wasn't like she was going to get any better. Not that it helped that she had contracted a case of consumption, meaning I ended up having to help her out on top of having to help at my father's tannery.

Dear heavens, the stench. You ever work in a tannery before? You want to...? No friend, you really don't want to know how a tanner works, trust me on this. Suffice to say, the combination stench of rotting meat, urine, and turpentine is one I never want to smell again. Sticks to the bones, it does, and it still makes me nauseous to this day. It was especially bad because that was generally regarded as the only option open to me as a small town lad. Didn't help that when times were bad and profits were low, my father would get into a sour mood and drink up more of the meager earnings. Which just made business worse and caused an endless cycle.

So one day, here I was, minding me own business, hating my life and my job, when some rich git comes by and orders a large bundle of leather, acting insulted he had to be around such a stench while holding smelling salts I'd never even dreamed of knowing before. And I realized it was just dumb luck that some got all the wealth while everyone else was shoveling their crap. It wouldn't last though; my life would quickly change.

Later that evening, as I was working on that rich fop's order while my father was off getting some more leather, a couple of town ne'er-do-wells came legging it, passing by my workshop. One of them tossed aside the bundle he was carrying into the nearby bushes, but his aim was so poor he hit the door of the workshop. I picked it up, only to find some coin and a ring, the same ring the rich man was wearing!

Needless to say, that left me at quite the quandary. A good citizen would have given the stolen items to the local sheriff. Instead, I kept on to it; I just didn't know why at the time. Two days later, when the trouble blew over, the same pair came by the workshop when only I was there. The younger one - the one that had thrown the bundle - was unsure, and wanted to try and pull out his knife to be intimidating. I wanted to make a threat to call the sheriff. The older one, however, cut through my uncertainty, and asked whether I'd like a cut for being a good secret keeper and keeping my mouth shut. And that was it. From then on, I secretly became a drop-off spot for the local crooks, hiding items until trouble blew over. Soon, I found I was making a better wage than I was as a tanner's apprentice. Even though father almost uncovered the whole deal a couple times, it went pretty smoothly. I had gotten my first taste of crime.

Eventually, being a tanner became more of a curse than a job to do, especially since I discovered I had other talents. I learned quickly from the other crooks, applying my skills to their purposes much quicker than I did in tannery. Rumors flew, of course, and my father suspected my misbegotten deeds. He then proceeded to tan my hide black and blue, but he could never get a confession out of me, just stubborn silence and stony resentment. It didn't take long for me to realize that I was wasting my time as a tanner, so with what earnings I made, I bought a ride out of town on a caravan at the tender age of 15, and never looked back.

The town of [insert name here] was a game-changer for me. It was a bigger, more ferocious rat race, but I learned quickly. I blended in with the street gangs and the criminals easily enough. First I started with pickpocketing and petty theft, then lockpicking, and working my way up to burglary. It was also in the city I chose a new name, putting aside my old name as well as my old life. Chance Blackbriar; it rolls off the tongue much better than Will Tanner, don't you think? One day, I had broken into a rich man's house, and found his precious little pistols. I took them for myself, and slowly began to train myself with them. And when a major crime sweep was initiated by the new count of the city, I found myself fleeing to the wilderness, with nothing to do but train myself with them in solitude and become a bandit. I got pretty good at that too.

Soon, I was joining the most notorious outlaws and bandits, robbing the rich to redistribute the wealth more evenly, even making quite the name for myself. After that, the world was my oyster; I was free to be my own legend and live my own life.

Of course, you quickly learn that fame has a heavy price, and quite often, you had to lay low. During a recent lull, I was hired by a bunch of adventurous souls to invade the dilapidated castle of Fallen King Matthias. Now, I know what you're thinking; Chance, my boy, you're madder than a hatter for to even think of invading a bloody vampire's abode! Well, that may be true, but I was never one to shy away from a challenge, to be honest. I mean, what's that miserable old sod going to do with all that treasure he's got stashed away in there? It could certainly be put to better use.

Other:
Chance is partially inspired by classic trilogy Han Solo, with some affectations of Trevor Belmont from Netflix' Castlevania Season 1-2 (in terms of voice and tone, though Trevor is generally a better and more heroic person, even if Chance is more pleasant to deal with). He's meant to be a charming, somewhat heroic rogue with an ambiguous moral compass. And much like Trevor, he's meant to be a largely competent individual who nonetheless gets his fair share of jokes at his expense.

Alistair did not have a surname for most of his life. The old Mother Superior gave him his name, after he was found on the steps of the orphanage. He assumes those early years were happy, wherever they are buried deep, deep within his memory.

Then the Mother Superior passed away, and an eager man of the cloth volunteered to take charge of the grounds and the children. He taught them to sing in the choir, fed them, played with them, mended their clothes...And one day, he found Alistair sketching the distant view of the church against the sunset. He flattered the boy with praise, and invited Alistair to see some of the priest's own collection.

Unfortunately, Alistair's lessons did not stop at art. When he looks back at the gallery of his life now, a cold sickness knots in his stomach. So many images, burned into his eyes, that more than once he asked the Lord to take his sight away. How easy it is, for those with evil hearts to paint themselves a false face; to hide the cracks in their soul like a vain woman's wrinkles!

The boy turned to his only hope--the Word. He prayed, and fasted, and studied the scriptures. He tried to be "better." He tried to repent of whatever sins he had committed. And then, one day, when the priest invited another child to see his "art," Alistair heard the Holy Spirit speak to him, clear as day.

He was only twelve years old, yet a righteous fury filled him as he kicked the door open. He still remembers the priest's face as the knife went between his ribs. His face still stings when he recalls the candelabra, its arms still alight, and the heavy blow across his face. They weren't the first scars he had suffered from this man, but they would be the last. Yet he was still a child, and his abuser a man full grown.

Until he was granted a Miracle. Alistair had never been instructed in such things, but he called out to Heaven and received an answer. The image in his mind's eye took shape as his mouth spoke the verse:

"It were better for him that a millstone be hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones."

A crowd of children rushed to the church for sanctuary. Days later, the Inquisition arrived. The man they sought to question had been crushed to mere pulp; his flesh had burned, and even his bones were ground to dust. Amidst the blackened wreckage of the orphanage, they found Alistair sitting untouched by debris, smoke, or ash, yet his face was bloodcrusted and his lips cracked and dry. But he was smiling.

Ten years later, a young Inquisitor by the last name "Miller" approached Gransylva. A vision, seen at the altar, drove him to wage a Holy Crusade against the Vampire King...even if his Order hesitated to support him...