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.
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.”
Upon hearing their confusion, Jacob was quick to provide an explanation that followed for him. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, peering around at them all with his single grey eye. He was acutely aware of how some people stared, or deliberately strived to avoid eye contact with him. Their discomfort oft translated into Jacob’s own insecurity about the scar, and even over the months he’d worn an eyepatch he still found no comfort in their questioning looks or averted gaze. Making a conscious effort to resist itching the stitched socket, he instead kept his hands firmly clasped around his sword hilt and belt, something that nearly gave him a doubletake.
Sword? He had two, and a small crossbow with a quiver of bolts to accompany it. Somehow, the sword hilt felt familiar in his hand, the sweat stained wrappings feeling as if they were made specifically for him, both comfortable and comforting. Jacob pressed on, ignoring the worm of doubt curling in his stomach.
“We were all out drinking last night, we must’ve met at some point and got black out wasted. Probably wandered out here early this morning and passed out. We couldn’t have gotten far from civilization, surely.” The explanation made sense to Jacob, it fit well into own activities, though he didn’t feel hung over like he should’ve been. Actually, he felt pretty good all things considered.
“My guess is we’re somewhere along the shore of lake Borgne, or maybe even the Gulf if we got that far. If someone has a phone we could check the maps?” He cast about looking for any one of their strangely dressed troupe to volunteer their service.
That was the story of Jacob Wheeler’s life in recent days, but now it was in regards for a less metaphysical issue. He wasn’t in his bed in his tiny one-bedroom apartment like he was supposed to be. He was out in the field again, sleeping in the sand! Licking his dry lips Jacob pushed himself onto his knees, his gloved hands sinking into the dust. A strange hat, an old-fashioned looking thing which’d been perched awkwardly on his head fell off from the sudden movement. He stared at the odd bit of headware, amused by its peculiarity and recent position on his head. He knew where it must have come from. He’d been attending Mardi Gras on the North Shore in Louisiana last night, out on the lakeshore. He must’ve bought it at some point during one of the themed parades from a street vender. The hat was oddly well made for something one might buy on the corner, and looked worn and tattered, and stained even. Jacob hoped he hadn’t wasted too much money on it. The amount of alcohol he’d consumed would explain his lapse in memory of the purchase, and his current sleeping arraignments out on the beach.
The thought of money in mind he patted his back pocket, groaning aloud when he found no reassuring bulge. Wallet’s gone. He checked his other pocket. Phone too, and his keys. Everything was gone, and he was alone on a beach, who knows where with no money, no car, and no way to call for help.
Jacob felt the sharp sting of despair when a murmur of voices behind him alerted him to presence of other people. He could have shouted aloud for joy as he turned quickly, standing up unsteadily to ask if any of them still possessed their cellular devices. As Jacob's unsteady eyes roamed over the local area his beer tinged breath caught in his throat at the sight of the strangest little creature he'd ever seen. It was like a large rat, but with seven tails, eight legs and fur that flashed dull red, then blue, then yellow. Jacob blinked, rubbing at his eyes and looking again. It’d vanished.
Deciding he was still a little drunk Jacob squinted at the other people, real tangible people assembled near by. Half dozen or more of them scattered about in similar states of confusion and groggy consciousness. Ignoring the arrangement of robes, armor, and weaponry more out of a refusal to acknowledge the oddities then not, he addressed the nearest and most awake person he could see.
“Um hi, I’m sure we’re good friends after last night, though I can’t seem to recall your name...?” Jacob scratched his head, brushing sand from his blonde hair. “Anyway, do you still have your phone by any chance? I seem to've lost mine...”
Rila’s words, plainly spoken stirred the slumbering figure stretched out on his cot on the other side of the tiny cell, a thin grey blanket draped over his knees. One grey eye popped open with a sudden intensity and its owner Shannuk groaned aloud, a sweaty palm clasping to his forehead. Clenching his eyes back shut the young man waited in momentary agony, his head throbbing with a crippling migraine. While he waited for his body to ease the pain naturally Shannuk reminisced on the acquisition of the headache, a combination of dehydration and a ringing blow from the guards who’d escorted him to his new home the night before.
He recalled the moment quite well, the guard in his crimson brown uniform marching stoically behind Shannuk, young and filled with youthful pride, no doubt dreaming of an illustrious military career. Winning prestige and honor for his family. Shannuk knew better. The boy marched with a duck-footed gait, and his squashy face was creased into an eternal look of cluelessness. He lumbered along as if it took imense concentration to shift his bulk one step at a time. “I wouldn’t keep my goals lofty,” he told the guard patting him on the shoulder in a friendly way. “There are those of us born with wits, and those born with brawn, and even some gifted in brawn and brain. Then there are those infelicitous few who are born like you.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” The young guard beamed with pride, cycling through a ring of cast-iron keys. Everything seemed to be made of iron. The floors, the walls, the windows, even the benches and tables all fashioned from molded iron. A suitable replacement to ice Shannuk thought, but cold and dreary, and uncomfortable.
“Indeed, but ahoy matey I see great prospects in your future. A competent fellow can surely improve their lot within a prison, guarding petty thieves while every other fire bender wins glory and honor all across the known world. In fact, I am so bold as to presume you might make janitor before you turn fifty, as long as you concentrate on continuing to inhale and then exhale repeatedly.”
At first the guard grinned, but then his face darkened and he swung his meaty fist catching Shannuk upside the head with surprising strength and accuracy. Sending the stunned pirate tumbling through the recently opened cell door to join his new cellmate.
Grimacing at the memory Shannuk sat up, rubbing at his temple where a large lump festered. “Will we now?” He asked, genuinely curious in regards to Rila's comment. He was very new here, a rookie amongst seasoned inmates, finding the lay of the waters would be wise before straying to other important matters, like escape. Learning the schedule was the first step in the realization of that goal, and his cellmate would surely prove useful in that regard. “Tell, how is it that we get this fresh air? Will they take us out into a yard of some sort, all at once, or one at a time?"
Hunter's Armor & Garb - Thin layers of maille armor, and boiled-leather greeves strapped over thick woolen trousers and an undershirt of deep brown. Alongside steel pauldrons and bracers with soulless moleskin boots, all topped by a squat brown pilgrims hat.
Longsword - A steel sword of plain but sturdy make, with a battle edge and sweat stained wrappings on the hilt.
Falchion - A thick curving blade, small but with a keen edge and quick for the draw and made for a hasty reposte.
Hand-Crossbow - Light and low powered at range, but quick and deadly within twenty yards, and with a holster-quiver for easy transport and reloading.
Crucifix - A strange, foreign religious symbol from the world beyond, which when held aloft in the hand banishes the unholy spirits and avails the wielder and those nearby with some small protection from ethereal attacks.
Travelers Pack - Complete with all the adventuring needs, including candles, flint and tinder, rope, and a whetstone.
Appearance
Jacob Wheeler is a compact, and sturdily built young man in his early twenties, with a blonde stubbly beard around his chin and a sunken look in his one remaining eye. His hands and feet are heavily calloused from hard labor and training in his past, and his body is strong, with a forge beaten toughness about him that speaks of a man in peak physical condition. He talks with a soft southern drawl and walks with his head high and proud, and his shoulders straight, and yet remains unable to hide his haunted soul, even behind his facade of cool, collected, confidence.
Magic
Evocation - The Accusation "I accuse ye fell beast!"
Conjuring - The Watchers Those dark winged fowl who observe the dead and call in their language...
Personality
Jacob is a cynical and serious person, a pragmatist born of the fires of war, and a mission oriented problem solver. He is observant, and cool under pressure with a dedicated sense of honor and self-worth. He conceals his crippling fear of death behind a stonework wall of aptitude and confidence, presenting himself as the master of his own mind even while his personal demons ravage in the background of his thoughts. Hemming in his worldview is a betrayed sort of patriotism, and a belief in traditional values alongside a deepest loathing for cowardice and a failure of duty. Despite his inability to assimilate into new concepts easily Jacob does possess a knack for leadership and command. Including understanding the dynamics and complications of the team, and the individuals therein. Although he is never eager to take charge, when tasked he proves adequate if not outright adept in all his obligations, preferring that he see them through then and there instead of leaving them for tomorrow. His brisk, almost controlling nature has led him into multiple conflicts before, and more than likely will again in the future, with more free spirited folks who are more likely to openly resist him. For this Jacob's temper is short, and he has never been very skilled at deescalation. Over the past couple years he's drained much of his mind and life away with the bottle, drowning out his sorrows and doubts and fears he keeps so well hidden while with company. Overall he is a quiet and focused man, quick to anger, and vigorous in his retribution.
Biography
Some men are born for a certain duty or undertaking, with clear set qualities that avail them to their field of expertise. For Jacob Wheeler, he was born to walk the path of a warrior. He grew up fast, developing his mind and body to the task ahead, to complete his training at the earliest possible moment and prove himself a worthy member of that noble order whose ethos was honor, courage, and commitment. Throughout his younger days Jacob was enamored with the tales of valor, of heroes and enemies and adventure across the world, dreaming of the day when he too might take up arms and march with them to glory and honor and victory. And so he said the words, and he joined them, and what he found there was not what he expected in the least.
He found grueling effort, and sweat and rained soaked nights, and painful hours, and backbreaking work followed by boredom soaked days. And yet he also found purpose. The honor, the glory, the victories those were all farces, deceit wrapped about the suffering to conceal the misery within, and yet there he found brothers who would lay down their lives for him just as he would for them, and he found a sense of contentment in the horrors. At least he did until he was shipped to some faraway accursed hell on earth to fight the battles he'd so longed for as a child. Except he found he didn't want to fight them anymore, and he no longer desired to kill.
Yet kill he did... Jacob lost his eye to war, and most of his friends as well. They were taken one by one, those honorable young men, all better than him, snatched away unfairly when it should have been him. In that war he lost his purpose, shipped home and medically discharged. He lost those friends whom remained, to the bottle and bullet. He lost his livelihood, to the drink and the nightmares as he tried to purge himself of the demons. He lost everything, and every day he swirled deeper into misery and darkness, hoping for the chance to course correct his young life, onward to greater purpose once more.
Hunter's Armor & Garb - Thin layers of maille armor, and boiled-leather greeves strapped over thick woolen trousers and an undershirt of deep brown. Alongside steel pauldrons and bracers with soulless moleskin boots, all topped by a squat brown pilgrims hat.
Longsword - A steel sword of plain but sturdy make, with a battle edge and sweat stained wrappings on the hilt.
Falchion - A thick curving blade, small but with a keen edge and quick for the draw and made for a hasty reposte.
Hand-Crossbow - Light and low powered at range, but quick and deadly within twenty yards, and with a holster-quiver for easy transport and reloading.
Crucifix - A strange, foreign religious symbol from the world beyond, which when held aloft in the hand banishes the unholy spirits and avails the wielder and those nearby with some small protection from ethereal attacks.
Travelers Pack - Complete with all the adventuring needs, including candles, flint and tinder, rope, and a whetstone.
Appearance
Jacob Wheeler is a compact, and sturdily built young man in his early twenties, with a blonde stubbly beard around his chin and a sunken look in his one remaining eye. His hands and feet are heavily calloused from hard labor and training in his past, and his body is strong, with a forge beaten toughness about him that speaks of a man in peak physical condition. He talks with a soft southern drawl and walks with his head high and proud, and his shoulders straight, and yet remains unable to hide his haunted soul, even behind his facade of cool, collected, confidence.
Magic
Evocation - The Accusation "I accuse ye fell beast!"
Conjuring - The Watchers Those dark winged fowl who observe the dead and call in their language...
Personality
Jacob is a cynical and serious person, a pragmatist born of the fires of war, and a mission oriented problem solver. He is observant, and cool under pressure with a dedicated sense of honor and self-worth. He conceals his crippling fear of death behind a stonework wall of aptitude and confidence, presenting himself as the master of his own mind even while his personal demons ravage in the background of his thoughts. Hemming in his worldview is a betrayed sort of patriotism, and a belief in traditional values alongside a deepest loathing for cowardice and a failure of duty. Despite his inability to assimilate into new concepts easily Jacob does possess a knack for leadership and command. Including understanding the dynamics and complications of the team, and the individuals therein. Although he is never eager to take charge, when tasked he proves adequate if not outright adept in all his obligations, preferring that he see them through then and there instead of leaving them for tomorrow. His brisk, almost controlling nature has led him into multiple conflicts before, and more than likely will again in the future, with more free spirited folks who are more likely to openly resist him. For this Jacob's temper is short, and he has never been very skilled at deescalation. Over the past couple years he's drained much of his mind and life away with the bottle, drowning out his sorrows and doubts and fears he keeps so well hidden while with company. Overall he is a quiet and focused man, quick to anger, and vigorous in his retribution.
Biography
Some men are born for a certain duty or undertaking, with clear set qualities that avail them to their field of expertise. For Jacob Wheeler, he was born to walk the path of a warrior. He grew up fast, developing his mind and body to the task ahead, to complete his training at the earliest possible moment and prove himself a worthy member of that noble order whose ethos was honor, courage, and commitment. Throughout his younger days Jacob was enamored with the tales of valor, of heroes and enemies and adventure across the world, dreaming of the day when he too might take up arms and march with them to glory and honor and victory. And so he said the words, and he joined them, and what he found there was not what he expected in the least.
He found grueling effort, and sweat and rained soaked nights, and painful hours, and backbreaking work followed by boredom soaked days. And yet he also found purpose. The honor, the glory, the victories those were all farces, deceit wrapped about the suffering to conceal the misery within, and yet there he found brothers who would lay down their lives for him just as he would for them, and he found a sense of contentment in the horrors. At least he did until he was shipped to some faraway accursed hell on earth to fight the battles he'd so longed for as a child. Except he found he didn't want to fight them anymore, and he no longer desired to kill.
Yet kill he did... Jacob lost his eye to war, and most of his friends as well. They were taken one by one, those honorable young men, all better than him, snatched away unfairly when it should have been him. In that war he lost his purpose, shipped home and medically discharged. He lost those friends whom remained, to the bottle and bullet. He lost his livelihood, to the drink and the nightmares as he tried to purge himself of the demons. He lost everything, and every day he swirled deeper into misery and darkness, hoping for the chance to course correct his young life, onward to greater purpose once more.
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