Anyway. I am interested, however considering you already have multiple parties posting or soon to be posting characters and only four open slots I'll remain on the sidelines for now. Put me down as a reinforcement character should anyone drop out, or if you want more players.
Korriban always invoked an odd sense of familiarity in Kutar Zema’s heart, like a home returned to after many years apart. The Sith warrior hated this commonality with the red planet, the sense was almost a confusing annoyance in his mind, like an implant stitched to his soul. The force attached him to this world, an inseparable bond unwillingly or perhaps willingly forged by his own connection to the force. He did not know for certain. Unlike the new Sith that so populated the Empire, Kutar did not think of the ancient sith homeworld with the same ‘fond’ memories. The new sith recognized it as the origin of their powers. He however was trained and raised on the near aquatic world of Dromund Kaas, utterly forgien to the cold drylands of Korriban. Kutar could not recall a time when the planet ever gave him a sense of comfort, yet in his mind’s eye the world embraced him like a long lost son, welcoming him back at last. Seated where he was, cross legged on the floor of his Imperial Shuttle’s bridge, unease filled his heart. Not from the planet’s climate or the innate force connection, but from his reasons for entering Korriban’s atmosphere in the first place. Had it been his choice, he would have taken his orders and left straight for the rendezvous point, avoiding the capital and his master all together. However the Empire and his master had never functioned in accordance to his personal wishes and never would. He was summoned directly, and the reasoning behind the summons was what filled Kutar with dread.
How long had it been? Years now seperated their last meeting, and after months of self imposed isolation Kutar found himself called before Darth Embrus for reasons unknown. After Savvory’s evaluation Kutar hoped to be back into his master’s graces again, a favored and loyal apprentice, yet it took months for orders to arrive, and they only to call him to Embrus’ dark tower. The implications Kutar thought, were not good. To many defeats, to many wounds and men lost to be ignored and forgotten by time. Embrus did not care to associate himself with such failures. Kutar had hoped that those mistakes be forgotten, so that he could collect himself from his slump. Apparently in vain.
“Sir, we have been cleared for landing and are entering Korriban’s atmosphere now. It should be roughly ten minutes before our final approach.” Opening his eyes Kutar found the two pilots had swiveled in their chairs and were watching him, concern in their gaze. The one who had spoken was a balding man in his forties, the flight officer in command of the shuttle. His executive officer was a younger man, more curious but just as reserved in his questions. They had spent the last fourteen hours watching him, wondering if he’d died in transit, so silent and still had Kutar been in meditation. They had been ever so careful not to disturb him, gingerly stepping around his bulk to relieve themselves or refill their canteens. Kutar had ungraciously planted himself on the bridge, all but blocking the door with his long legs and broad shoulders making such a trip to the vessel’s small latrine difficult to say the least. The upcoming landing must have given the flight officer the excuse he needed to finally say something that might stir their quiet passenger. Giving only a silent nod to humor the man Kutar closed his eyes once again, dreading the their inevitable arrival all the more.
The last stages of the flight were in essence as uneventful as the last fourteen hours. The Imperial shuttle made good time over the wastelands, dropping faster and faster until it was hovering over a venerable city. Ancient buildings of stone dominated the cityscape, irregularly marred by the occasional oddity structures that conformed to the whims of the Sith lords who resided within. A large glass dome here, a silvered spiral there and at last an intimidating tower of blackened steel. Orbiting the monolith twice Kutar’s ship swiveled on an invisible access before descending the final two hundred feet. The pilot was skilled in his craft, and the ship touched down gentler than Kutar ever could have managed. Pipes hissed and a spray of cool air wafted over the vessel’s inhabitants as the internal mechanisms adjusted the shuttle to Korriban’s atmospheric pressure.
In standing Kutar nearly fell over. His legs were dead, having been tucked under his weight for so long. Grabbing ahold of the pilot’s chair to steady himself Kutar waited a moment, letting the blood flow back into his lower limbs.
“Refuel and restock the ship, and then rest if you must.” He ordered once he felt he could walk again without stumbling. The younger pilot jumped at Kutar’s rumbling voice, he must have thought him a mute. “You may not leave the shuttle, I want it ready to depart the moment I return.” Leaving them to their ship-keeping the warrior crossed the platform, eating up the remaining distance with his long legged stride. Every step brought him closer to a confrontation, and Kutar did not know what to expect. Would he be praised, admonished, or simply given orders face to face? Praise was not likely, orders could be beamed across lightyears… Kutar’s hands curled into fists and he kept walking. Two guardsmen spotted him approaching, and made to intercept him before they recognized who he was, stepping smartly aside to allow the hulking apprentice to pass.
Every obstacle, every barrier moved aside, nothing coming between him and his objective, an almost amusing situation for a man so used to overcoming hurdles, having them non-forthcoming in the one time he would appreciate something slowing his advance. It brought a grim and ironic smile to his lips. Across the stone plaza he could hear Tishombra’s mocking voice and the sound of whirring lightsabers nearby. Kutar did not sense his master’s presence there amongst the training apprentices. In private then, he thought turning for Darth Embrus’ study.
Up and up he went, up the winding black stair his pace steady and resolved. Coward he called himself in his head. Coward who feared no man or thing but the stinging rebuke of his master. He needed no courage to face Darth Embrus, his master trusted him like no other. Kutar was his loyal servant, his strength and sword. Yet he feared the worst.
At last he stopped before the study doors, a silent behemoth in emotional turmoil, a seemingly unmoveable boulder but crumbling inside. His master was within, Kutar could tell, alongside another whose presence he did not recognize. Taking a well needed moment to calm the storm, Kutar took a deep breath exhaling his worries and fears and doubts as he would before a battle, concentrating only on the meeting before him. Raising one large hand he knocked, announcing his arrival at long last.
Since the meat of this is on the force section, I'll just post the revised version here.
For many Sith the rawest forms of true passion lie at the source of their mystical power in the force. For Kutar there is no exception, rage is the lifeblood of his strength, but not in the way one might expect. Kutar's anger manifests itself in a rather unique form, and for him there is very little outward aggression except in times of extreme duress. The rage lies beneath, hidden from the senses and smoldering away like the embers of a forge. Where a bonfire flares bright and burns itself out, Kutar has mastered a steady unyielding force, only unleashed at full near the battle's conclusion. This control over his anger presents itself foremost in his ability to manipulate his own body. Giving him speed, stamina and a strength that far outlasts most others. In sustained usage Kutar is strong, it is only against the most passionate and wroth foes that he meets his match. In most basic and intermediate force abilities he has advanced knowledge with intermediate application, but in particular he wields significant understanding and the capacity to preform self enhancements even mid battle. By his own nature he is not a talented force practitioner, and has reached this level of power through rigorous training and study. Unlike his almost natural physical prowess his more mystical power required years of hard work to develop. He does have one notorious talent, that is his near masterful control over draining his opponents of energy and sapping them of their reserves. Although he spent decades mastering force drain Kutar took to the ability like a tick to blood, and now it is almost second nature to him.
Basic Abilities
Force Empathy
Detoxify Poison
Force Stun
Breath Control
Force Deflection
Intermediate Abilities
Telekinesis/Force Throw
Telekinetic Defense
Force Sight (Basic)
Force Sense
Precognition
Dominate Mind
Crucitorn
Force Choke
Droid Disable
Tapas
Advanced Abilities
Force Bellow
Force Speed
Force Jump
Force Rage
Well-Trained Talent
Force Drain
The key addition, one I admittedly overlooked was a greater explanation of his lack on innate talent. I think it was briefly mentioned in his 'interview' but I made it clearer here. I also added a basic abilities section to the list as asked, to flesh out his force abilities a bit more, just added a few random ones from the provided list. Lastly I changed his final tab to well-trained talent and added Force Rage as requested.
Why does he have a faulty cybernetic arm? has Darth Embrus refused him to acquire anything more reliable?
Yes actually, Darth Embrus is very displeased with his student at the moment. On a writing level I want his arm to be something of a character development award later on. So when he overcomes his failure its something he earns, and getting a 'better' cybernetic arm will represent this growth.
Out of curiosity... Is there a reason you chose such great height? Anything you intend to play on/explore ICly with that?
Yes actually, there should be a number of things that come up. One writing point for example is his preference towards larger bombers with plenty of room for activities over compact fighters that are meant to house six feet of leg room at most. He's gonna have trouble like that constantly, little Padawans hiding in little hidey-holes he can't follow, getting sniped from hundreds of meters away because he stands out like a sore thumb, a considerable lack of stealth capabilities. Moreover I wanted a character that would be physically intimidating on the simple merits of being way to large.
How long do you usually write? To be completely honest I usually reciprocate the length and depth of my fellow role players. Whether that is long and highly detailed posts, or short two paragraph ones. Both have their own strengths in my eyes, as long as a good story is contained within.
Do you enjoy writing collaborative posts for things like conversations, combat, etc.? I certainly do, and I look forward to collaborating with some of the better writers participating in Persistent Galaxy. Hopefully I can learn a thing or two.
Is grammar and depth of writing important to you? Both are very important to me, but I mess up in the grammar department all the time. I try my best to proofread and clean up my writings but things slip through, so I'm not about to hold anyone to a perfect standard I can't keep myself, and I'd hope for the same courtesy from everyone else.
Are there any writing subjects you particularly enjoy exploring? Action and adventure are some of my favorites, and with a dab of mystery and drama that makes sure a recipe for a fun space romp.
Is there anything you really dislike and want to avoid like the plague? Not really, except for people who, "color their speech texts in such dark edgy colors you have to highlight it in order to read what they wrote."
Is there something you are uncomfortable with happening to your character? Nothing comes to mind.
Do you have any short-term or long-term goals with this character? I plan on Kutar exasperating his rivalry with Kyla Vondin to legendary levels, and causing immense trouble for the Jedi and Republic, while resolving his troubles with his Master Darth Embrus. Furthermore there have been discussions of him taking part in Selene's conversion...? We'll see what happens.
Name: Kutar Zema Species: Human Homeworld: Dromund Kaas Age: Seven and Thirty Gender: Male Rank: Sith Warrior Master: Darth Embrus Former master(s): N/A Apprentice(s): N/A Sphere of influence: Military Offense Sphere
Short description of candidate.
An all imposing giant Kutar Zema towers over most anyone and everyone. He stands a little over seven feet tall, with the mass of an adult wookie, paired with a set of broad shoulders and a thick jaw that is almost always turned up in an unimpressed smirk. He has small, suspicious amber eyes that dart here and there, and a rolling rumble of a voice whose roar can instill fear into the hearts of even the most brave of men. He dresses in heavy garments of navy blue for casual wear, and only dons his black war armor for large scale battles and conflicts. He is bald, except for a small soul patch of blonde hair on his chin which leaves his many scars for all to see. His cybernetic right arm is most striking. Made of burnished grey steel it is heavy and low tech, suffering from mechanical twitching errors and power shortages on the regular. Nevertheless it also proves a powerful and unique bludgeoning weapon, with a near unbreakable grip. Overall Kutar is the epitome of physical prowess, both shockingly quick and predictably powerful.
Simplified report on known Force techniques and estimated levels.
For many Sith the rawest forms of true passion lie at the source of their mystical power in the force. For Kutar there is no exception, rage is the lifeblood of his strength, but not in the way one might expect. Kutar's anger manifests itself in a rather unique form, and for him there is very little outward aggression except in times of extreme duress. The rage lies beneath, hidden from the senses and smoldering away like the embers of a forge. Where a bonfire flares bright and burns itself out, Kutar has mastered a steady unyielding force, only unleashed at full near the battle's conclusion. This control over his anger presents itself foremost in his ability to manipulate his own body. Giving him speed, stamina and a strength that far outlasts most others. In sustained usage Kutar is strong, it is only against the most passionate and wroth foes that he meets his match. In most basic and intermediate force abilities he has advanced knowledge with intermediate application, but in particular he wields significant understanding and the capacity to preform self enhancements even mid battle. By his own nature he is not a talented force practitioner, and has reached this level of power through rigorous training and study. Unlike his almost natural physical prowess his more mystical power required years of hard work to develop. He does have one notorious talent, that is his near masterful control over draining his opponents of energy and sapping them of their reserves. Although he spent decades mastering force drain Kutar took to the ability like a tick to blood, and now it is almost second nature to him.
Basic Abilities
Force Empathy
Detoxify Poison
Force Stun
Intermediate Abilities
Telekinesis/Force Throw
Telekinetic Defense
Force Sight (Basic)
Force Sense
Precognition
Dominate Mind
Crucitorn
Force Choke
Droid Disable
Tapas
Advanced Abilities
Force Bellow
Force Speed
Force Jump
Force Rage
Well-Trained Talent
Force Drain
Simplified report on other known skills and estimated levels, including lightsaber training.
Besides being a ruthlessly efficient fighter, Kutar demonstrates skills in naval combat and piloting, as well as survival. He prefers heavy bombers to smaller fighters due to his size, and the uncomfortable seating arrangements force him to pilot larger ships with more leg room. Despite the loss in maneuverability associated with sleek fighter craft he still handles himself moderately well in dogfights. He excels at ground combat most of all, and for what he lacks in long term strategic planning he makes up for in simplistic but straightforward tactics and enthusiasm. As a duelist Kutar is a terrifying opponent, not for his size alone, but for his endurance and skill at arms. In the waning days of the war Kutar found himself being pulled further and further back from Republic space to defend against Jedi incursions into Imperial holdings. Here he found far more Jedi to fight than ever before, including one in particular named Kyla Vondin who gave him a duel that cost him his arm and a great deal of his pride. He won most of his battles besides his duel with her, and grew arrogantly confident in his own abilities to kill Jedi. During lightsaber duels he utilized his preferred form of Djem So, to overpower and outlast his foes with heavy two handed combat. He was trained to fight aggressively, and he does just that, unleashing a withering assault upon his opponents, breaking their concentration and forcing them to react to him. Most find it difficult to remember fancy footwork and complex acrobatics under a hail of precise bone-shattering blows.
Quick report on political influence, ownerships, associates and rivals.
Never having been much of a political cat Kutar ignores this side of Sith life, to a degree. Should he have focused more upon building his power base he might very well be a lord at this point, but he is content where he's at, and has little desire to advance further up the chain of command. His greatest influence derives from the Darth he serves, and his own menacing presence two serious factors in their own right.
Not one to be sentimental or own overly much, Kutar still possess a home to return to. A medium sized estate on one of Dromund Kaas' moons. outfitted with a small detachment of security guards and a dozen servants to keep it maintained. It is very sparsely decorated, many of its rooms being entirely empty due to its unsentimental owner's unwillingness to fill it out. It acts more as a place of recovery and meditation, and an emergency shelter than a proper home. Packed with supplies, equipment, and three spare unarmed ships and a few loyal servants it makes a decently dependable retreat in times of crisis.
Although officially banned by the Treaty of Coruscant Kutar still keeps a B-5 Decimus hidden at his home. He finds the bomber more comfortable than a traditional fighter, while also preferring the heavy weaponry and greater protection. He does not have a name for it, more often than not referring to the thing as "My bomber."
As one of Darth Embrus' most trusted apprentices he holds some sway, and name recognition with his other apprentices, particularly the eight, of whom he is a part of.
Out of all the Jedi, Republic officials, and random citizens whose homes and ships he's burned, who would very much like to see Kutar dead, none enrage the Sith Warrior more than the one named Kyla Vondin. Her name and face is burned into his memory, his missing arm is a testament to her victory. For awhile he had the esteemed pleasure to have her at his mercy, but his revenge was cut short and she was snatched away, lost to the endless lightyears of space and galaxy. Given the chance Kutar would see her dead for good, not just a prisoner who may potentially escape his clutches once again.
Psychological evaluation of candidate.
A particularly driven person, Kutar is unlikely to give in under any circumstances. He is both sly, and tenacious usually becoming hyper-focused on one thing or the other and often sacrificing in other areas because of it. As an apprentice he is a dutiful follower, taking orders without complaint and striving to see them through to the best of his ability. His loyalty is almost fanatical to both his master and the Sith Empire. Those who brought him up out of slavery, and gave him both power and purpose in life. On the battlefield he is a sight to behold, wading into combat with little regard for life or limb, shaking off wounds and resolutely marching on to victory or death. His defeat at the hands of Kyla Vondin was not the first time he had to be evacuated on a stretcher, though it was the most personal. His greatest strength is his control over his emotions, enabling him to unleash them at his whim. Although he fights with the ferocity of a beserker he still thinks with his head, working through his strategy, admittedly on the fly, to consider the surest path to victory.
List of uncovered and suspected flaws. To be put into restricted database.
Plagued by a number of personal failings, Kutar's first and foremost flaw is his inability to see the larger picture. He very quickly gets tunnel vision, focusing in on his target and disregarding the rest. He requires guidance, and someone to strategize long term for him. Moreover, although he is not stupid Kutar is not highly intelligent either, and can be fooled by a reasonably smart individual. He grew up a slave after all, and his education was lacking for some time.
Major achievements and failures on record.
Success Kutar has been successful on numerous fronts during the war and his training. Rather swiftly he gained the title of Warrior for his prowess in battle, and claimed the lives of thirteen Jedi padawans and knights over his military career. One slaying in particular stands out, when he saved his master's life during the sack of Coruscant by the striking down the dazed Jedi instructor. He has mastered the Form Five's Djem So, and became uncannily powerful with force drain. All the while playing a key role in multiple Imperial victories.
Failures Often unwilling to admit defeat Kutar has overextended himself on several occasions resulting in greater losses when retreat would have been the wiser option. Furthermore during a key fight against Kyla Vondin he was soundly defeated, and lost his arm in the process. She was later captured, but escaped his clutches along with hundreds of other valuable prisoners of war. It is widely suspected that Kutar did very little to prevent the Republic forces taking over the facility, as suicidal as such an effort might have been. After that day at the POW camp Kutar has been ravaged by troubles, his mind locked elsewhere on revenge. After three more lost battles, and mounting casualties amongst his troops he left his post and secluded himself at his homestead recovering from multiple wounds of varying severity.
Personal biography, as detailed by the candidate for use in imperial archives. Acquired shortly after last achievement of note.
The two stopped and faced each other ten paces apart, a stretch of durasteel flooring all that remained between them. Silence reigned unbroken as the two Sith eyed each other, taking in all the other had to offer. Inquisitor Savvory was no small man, thin and lanky as he was his head still only reached to Kutar’s stubbled chin. Nevertheless he held his gaze without flinching, a cocky smirk on his lips. For his own part Kutar remained collected, more curiosity in his eyes than malice, despite the Inquisitor’s distasteful arrival in this place of solitude. The warrior’s eyes flickered down, gauging what to do. Already Savvory held his lightsaber, the weapon disengaged but at the ready position in low guard. Kutar reclined his hand upon his own hilt. Should there be a confrontation he would not be caught unawares.
“I thought you were here to ask me questions, about my past.” Kutar accused, his voice a rumble of anger. “Not threaten me in my own home. Or do you fear I should break Imperial law and strike you down?”
“One can never know for certain.” Savvory replied, his eyes narrowing to amber slits. With his free hand he drew forth from his sleeve a holocorder. A press of the button later the device whirred into life, taking flight to begin a slow orbit of the two men. A steady hum emitted from the recorder, and Kutar followed its mesmerizing progress, uncertain at its implications. The recorder made three cycles before Savvory made to speak again, moving closer, slow yet deliberate. Kutar tensed, sensing danger from the smaller man. “Your master has become concerned as of late Kutar Zema. Your failures continue to mount, and your successes become fewer and farther between. Aye, I am here to acquire Imperial data on you, but I have another purpose. Your master has specifically requested of me that I evaluate your skills, to ensure you have not lost to much of yourself to a Jedi's blade...” Those cold eyes dropped, locking on to Kutar’s right arm. The cybernetics clenched and writhed uncontrollably as Kutar imagined wrapping those metallic fingers around the fool’s throat and squeezing. Savvory halted his advance, staring up at Kutar’s livid face only inches away, so close Kuatr could feel each and every breath the smaller man breathed.
“You lie. He would never ask that.” Kutar’s lightsaber was in his hand now, he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. “My master trusts me like no other. I am his most loyal serva-”
“Your master is ashamed to call you his apprentice!” The roar echoed throughout the hanger, impossibly loud. The starships rattled and the walls themselves shook with the force of it. In a single blast of power Kutar was lifted off his feet and sent skidding across the floor, his lightsaber clattering off in the opposite direction. The hovering recorder zipped this way and that, trying to follow Kutar’s ungainly progress while keeping Savvory’s leering face in frame. Scraping to a halt Kutar knelt on one knee. There should have been pain, but all he felt was the wrath of ages, his blood boiled and at that moment his mind left his past mistakes and was locked upon gaunt man before him. Savvory approached again faster this time, a thin crimson blade sprouting from his saber's hilt. “Tell me Kutar Zema, do you think you can handle both at the same time? Or should I get my recording and report to your master of your incompetence?”
Reaching out Kutar felt his discarded lightsaber in his mind’s eye, willing the weapon to his waiting hand. It rocketed across the room even as Savvory’s lightsaber descended in a deadly arc, Kutar caught it at the last second, the elongated blade igniting in a burst of ruby plasma, catching Savvory’s own and stopping the Inquisitor cold. With an almighty push Kutar forced Savvory away, rising to his full height his lightsaber held two handed before him. “Have what you will.”
They clashed, a furious storm as the mountain and the wind battled for supremacy. They parted, Savvory smiling, Kutar huffing before engaging again, a veritable whirlwind of lightsabers, hacking slashing, parrying never still for a moment.
“Tell me of yourself.” Savvory asked calm as if he was taking a pleeasent stroll through a pleasure garden, never letting up on his assault as he flitted and dodged through Kutar’s defenses. “Have you always been such a dismal disgrace? What cesspool world did you spawn from, and what lowborn scum were the filth that sired you?”
“Dromund Kaas!” Kutar roared, forcing himself to concentrate both on the battle and his past, the Inquisitor's lighting quick blade made both a significant challenge. “Hardly the cesspool you expected I’d imagine. My mother, a slave, my father, a slave in the fighting pits, lowborn scum perhaps, but my father was a feared fighter and won his master many victories. He perished in battle honorably winning his freedom posthumously. I was to take his place, but I was discovered and recognized for the power I would be. So I was taken and trained at the academy by the overseers in Kaas City. Gaaah!”
Savvory had finally succeeded in breaking Kutar’s guard, leaving a nasty burn on his hip. Favoring the wound Kutar circled, backpedaling away. “Power you would be? Oh I can see that.” Savvory mocked following after the retreating warrior.
Continuing his retreat Kutar watched the Inquisitor closer, studying his movements. “At the academy I grew stronger, I trained harder than any of my peers. I was not a natural talent no, but I was determined to make a name for myself through any means necessary. To show everyone I am more than just the spawn of a slave! Through that dedication I became more powerful and I caught the eye of my master, for my strength and determination. I was one of the first he trained, his most loyal! He brought me forth, and showed me the path I must walk in order to serve him, and walk it I did. No matter the difficulty, the agony or hardship I walked that path he set for me, and I gained his favor!” Throughout the duration of their duel Kutar had been on the defensive, a tactical position he despised. Yet, it was becoming easier to react, he’d noticed a pattern to Savvory’s attacks, and almost by instinct he parried them.
“For years I have served him faithfully, dutifully learning all he taught me and doing all he asked. I gathered my own influence incrementally, but that was of small concern to me. I am a fighter not a politician, such trivialities ought be left to those who desire them. My own talents lay in battle, in commanding troops and following orders. Aye I failed my master at times, but I served him faithfully through it all, what more could be asked of a servant? I won my victories through blood and iron time and again, prevailing against impossible odds and I have personally slain no less than thirteen Jedi. I even saved my master's life on Coruscant, he could find no more worthy an apprentice.”
“Padawans, and distracted Knights, of little consequence. I would be more impressed if you slew defenseless babes in their cradles.” The inquisitor spat. His brow narrowed and he seemed haggered but he pressed his attack nonetheless. “The evidence of failure is clear for all to see. Your arm!”
“Yes let us speak of my arm, and my failures.” Kutar hissed, suddenly he was no longer retreating. His feet were planted in a wide stance and he held his ground against everything Savvory threw at him. “I was on a mission on the stormswept moon in the outer rim, alongside a few of my fellow apprentices and with a full detachment of Imperial troopers. We had been alerted to raiding being done by the Jedi, and ambushed them at a droid factory. A full surround, and a certain victory. During the fighting I even slew a Jedi Padawan, but that’s when she appeared. Kyla Vondin. She was like nothing I had ever fought before, or will ever fight again I am certain. The storm itself, manifest. She and her troops fought back with a ferocity unknown, I was outmatched.”
“A failure.”
“No!” The two killers locked blades, Kutar bore down upon the smaller man, forcing him back one step, then two. Savvory’s knees bent under the pressure and then he was away, dancing out of range. Kutar followed, steely determination in his eyes. “I gave everything I had to that battle, none could have hoped to stand against her at that time, anger fueled her skill and it brought me low. I lost my arm, and my pride and I thought I would lose my life… But she hesitated, she showed mercy.
“You should be dead.” Savvory accused, panting. Perspiration clung to his nose, and he held his weapon lower than before, and swung slower.
“I concur, there is no greater shame than survival through mercy. She should have plunged her saber into my heart and ended my suffering there. She might have prevailed then, saved her forces and escaped. Her hesitation cost her the battle, and it should have cost her life. I was unconscious, or I would have done the deed myself. As it was, we were ordered to preserve her life for she was considered valuable, a potential convert. A mistake.”
“Imperial orders were a mistake?”
“Their mercy preserved her life, she was to dangerous I insisted. She must die! While I recovered from my wounds I had the opportunity to examine her closer. I was an adamant torturer but I lacked the skill to even make a dent. Even others more skilled than I proved ineffective in breaking her resolve. When her rescuers came I knew she would only recover, and become more dangerous than ever.”
“And yet, when those rescuers came you turned tail and ran from the battle, and allowed her and hundreds of valuable prisoners to escape! You who only lost battles and men from that day on, who has only tasted the foul cup of defeat.”
Kutar grinned. “My troops were outnumbered, I was still recovering from my wounds, I made the tactical decision to retreat.” In a burst of speed and raw power Kutar untethered himself, launching a withering assault upon Savvory, every strike a hammer-fall upon the smaller man’s shoulders. “When the time comes I shall have my revenge, she is not the only one becoming more dangerous. I have spent my time training and preparing for the moment. She does not deserve the privilege of being converted and serving the Sith, or the mercy of being a prisoner. When the day finally arrives, I shall kill her myself as she should have done for me!” Every word translated into a blow until Savvory went down on one knee, his saber flying from his hand. Kutar kicked the man in the mouth sending him sprawling on his back spitting bloody phlegm. Standing over the defeated inquisitor arms akimbo legs spread wide Kutar held the saber blade at Savvory’s throat, a centimeter away from killing the shocked man. For the first time Kutar sensed Savvory's fear, and the power he held over him cheered the soul, calming the rage that roiled like a typhoon in his heart. The ruby blade vanished from existence and Kutar stored the large hilt at his hip, stepping over the downed Inquisitor leaving him panting and bloody on the durasteel floor, but still alive.
“You have your report, tell my master he need not fear. I shall never fail him again.”
I'm planning on fashioning more POV characters, but its just Orion for now.
HOUSE BARATHEON of STORM'S END
'OURS IS THE FURY!'
Recent History
The youngest of the the seven great houses of Westeros, House Baratheon of Storm's End was installed by Aegon I during his conquests of the region. The Baratheon's were named thereon Lords Paramount of the Stormlands, and seen with high favor by their Targaryn Kings. For nigh nintey years the sons of Orys 'The One Hand' Baratheon have ruled the Stormlands from their seat Storm's End, taking the words, castle, and honor of the Storm King who came before. The Storm men they preside over are a resilient and fractious people, with a long memory, and a righteous fury. House Baratheon, from Orys then to Robbas in the present have struggled to rein in the proud Storm lords and their chivalry, keeping them loyal to the wishes of the Targaryn King on the Iron Throne. Their efforts have not been in vain, and it could be said that with a Baratheon at their head the armies of the Stormlands are the most loyal and dangerous force in all the Seven Kingdoms. Though many of the great houses would beg to differ on surety of that point, there is no denying the Stormlands; at least before that pincer grip on power slipped under the chaotic rule of Robbas Baratheon I.
He was never meant to rule. Robbas was the younger brother to Boremund Baratheon and Jocelyn Targaryn née Baratheon. Boremund was sickly in his youth, prone to coughing fits and spontaneous bleeding from the nose, unlike his brother and the Baratheon's who came before he was weak of body, and slight of build barely able to stand and play. He remained in his chambers for the most part, while his brother Robbas lanced and hunted he wrote and read. At the young age of seventeen he passed away while abed, the servants discovering him pale as a ghost, perished from what the maester claimed was internal bleeding. The end scenario suited Robbas just fine. He never much cared for his brother, their personalities and pursuits clashed without end, and Robbas had always felt slighted that the lands and titles went to his pathetic excuse for a brother. He had always been strong and energetic, filled with all the wrath and lust of ten men, whereas Boremund died a virgin. Later Robbas became a knight, and at twenty-two a lord, and not one drop of his personality left him. During his reign as Lord Paramount, Robbas Baratheon was known as an effective yet ruthless ruler, the veteran of a score of battles and a master of fear. He fathered two sons and a daughter, with the Lady Sayella Baratheon, née Tarth. During the time of his rule he gathered very few powerful friends, but a great many dangerous foes, including the houses of Connington and Selmy, Fell, and Buckler, by insult and disrespect among other acts. During one night of heavy drinking, Lord Robbas bedded the new wife of Lord Selmy during his wedding day celebrations, disarmed Lord Buckler in a duel for Buckler's daughter's honor, and spit in Lord Fell's face for the slightest backtalk. In a single evening he had made three new enemies, who evermore looked on him and his household in disdain. Years later he would execute the Lord Connington for being late to battle and a craven, and installed the man's bastard son as heir, an act that has never been forgotten by Connington's trueborn sons. Robbas was no man to make amends, and actively furthered the bad blood, antagonizing the lords of his sworn houses. Even those families he was not openly feuding with him looked on disapprovingly. Of Houses Selmy, Buckler, Fell, and Connington cadets he made open mockery, and dug salt into their wounds as was his combative nature. Despite this, those four houses could do not but grit their teeth and bend to his will, weathering their Lord Paramount's mood. For it was well known by then that Robbas Baratheon harbored little patience, and was terrifying to behold in battle.
Of the Baratheon children Robbas II, 'The Younger', was the heir to all the titles and lands. He was as blusterous and promiscuous as his predecessor, his apple falling close to his father's tree. He resided at Storm's End, married to Tolana née Swann with a young son of his own, Robbas III, perhaps his fifth child, but his only true-born. Robbas The Elder's second born was Orion, a man of twenty who was seen far more favorably then his father and elder brother by the Stormlords, he was soft spoken, and true hearted, loyal to a fault, or a "weak willed follower" as his father called him. He spent much of his time away in the Reach, courting his intended bride to be. Mellaran the youngest at only twelve remained in Storm's End, she is a pretty enough girl, and well known for being cleverer then Robbas, and bolder than Orion. Together the five of them made a rather broken family, with the only ties maintaining their cohesion being blood and honor.
Nevertheless due to Robbas I's iron will they maintained and prospered, never giving an inch to their foes in battle or otherwise until those fateful days when the Baratheon's pincer grip on power faltered, and his demons came all at once. The day came when Robbas I fell deathly ill, his skin pale and his hands once powerful without equal shaking and weak. He was reaching middle age as they say, but the disease struck him hard and fast, and despite the maester's best efforts he could not break his fever. On the second week the bleeding began, running fast and free from his nostrils until the Lord Paramount was pale as his brother had been all those years before. That was when the ravens arrived from the Weeping Town, bearing condolences and tears of their own. Whilst riding with his friend Ser Whitehead, Ser Robbas II fell from his horse and shattered his neck on the rocks below. There was no saving the young heir, and Robbas The Elder died only days later before the funeral for his eldest son could even be held. Following soon after their passing Robbas' political enemies began making themselves known, emboldened by the loss of Robbas and his eldest son they moved on Storm's End like ravens to carrion. Before Tytan Baratheon, Robbas I's youngest brother could even arrive to say his final goodbyes to his deceased sibling, Lord Buckler had snatched away Robbas III and his mother. Carting them back with him to Bronzegate, claiming he was chosen to foster the boy until he came of age. Upon arriving at Storm's End in a rage at the news, Tytan was shocked to find Selmy wheat flying alongside the Baratheon stag, and the gates barred to him. The Lord Selmy had occupied the castle, naming himself its caretaker until Robbas III was deemed of capacity to take up the mantle as Lord of Storm's End himself. Tytan was turned away, unable to even speak to his niece, or sister-by-law. In short order Robbas' foes had dug their claws in, with clear intention to remain.
House Members
Name: Lord Robbas I Baratheon Age: Forty-three Deceased Info: The now dead lord of the Stormlands. A chaotic and controversial figure during his rule, he died under suspicious circumstances, and in such a time that allowed his political enemies to take control of the Stormlands.
Name: Lady Saynella Baratheon née Tarth Age: Thirty-eight Info: Wife of the late Lord Robbas, she is currently held hostage by Lord Selmy in Storm's End for the good behavior of Tarth.
Name: Lord Robbas II "The Younger" Baratheon Age: Twenty-one Deceased Info: The eldest son of Lord Robbas, "The Younger" as he was often called perished in a tragic riding accident under suspicious circumstances only days before his father's tragic passing.
Name: Lady Tolana Baratheon née Swann Age: Eighteen Info: The young bride of Ser Robbas II, she is currently being held captive with her young son at Bronzegate by Lord Buckler.
Name: Lord Robbas III Baratheon Age: Two Info: Little Robbas is now the young lord paramount of Storm's End after the tragic deaths of both his father and grandfather. He is being warded by Lord Buckler at Bronzegate.
Name: Ser Orion Baratheon Age: Twenty Info: The Second son of Lord Robbas the "Elder", Orion has been away from the Stormlands and Storm's End for years after a brutal argument with his father.
Name: Lady Mellaran Baratheon Age: Fourteen Info: The youngest child of Robbas Baratheon, Mellaran is currently in the care of Lord Selmy at Storm's End.
Name: Ser Tytan Baratheon Age: Forty Info: The Knight of the Swimming Stag, Tytan Baratheon is Robbas Baratheon's youngest brother, and a sworn knight and captain aboard the vessel Swimming Stag. He holds some small lands on Cape Wrath and currently commands a small company of knights and lancers encamped near Storm's End, the only outspoken resistance against Lord Buckler.
POV House Characters
Orion Baratheon
Age: Twenty
House/Affilitation: Son of House Baratheon
Appearance:
Signs of boyhood still cling to Orion Baratheon despite him being a man grown, and a warrior bloodied. His jaw is often covered in thin black hair, not yet a proper beard, and his voice cracks on occasion in a sign of late adolescence. His hair and eyes are the typical Baratheon black and blue, with fair skin and a height so that he stares down upon more men than he looks up too. He carries himself with the pride and honor of a knight of House Baratheon, though a sharp eyed and knowing man might see through his outer shield, to recognize a broken hearted boy, lost and afraid in a world within which he does not belong. Orion is soft spoken, gentle and in most ways the opposite of his late father and elder brother. If he did not don the yellow and black, nor wear the stag sigil most would never guess he was sired from the marital family, at least not until he took up sword and lance to demonstrate his inherited and nurtured skill at arms.
Biography:
Born in 91AC the second son to Robbas and Saynella Baratheon, Orion proved himself at odds with his father from his very first breath. Perhaps it was because his hair wasn’t as dark, or his eyes as blue, or merely the fact that he was his father’s second son. Whatever the reason right from the start it was evident that Robbas preferred his son of the same name, and doted on him whilst Orion became the center of his mother’s affections. This particular division between the boys and parents did little to mend the broken family, only highlighting their apparent weaknesses to one another. When Orion would scrape his knee as a toddling child he would run weeping to his mother whilst Robbas II would wipe away the blood and laugh. Proof, Lord Robbas concluded, one of his sons was a craven and the other a born Lord. Robbas was determined however, that Orion toughen up, refusing the be the sire of a coward. For Orion, this meant Robbas became a father from a nightmare, wroth and ill tempered with the seemingly softhearted boy. His tactics some would were cruel, but still they proved effective in forcibly fashioning Orion into a fighter even at a tender age. Tears, and fits were the first childish behavior to vanish, through beatings and harsh words and humiliating punishments Robbas ensured the young Orion never so much as showed emotion in his presence, or the presence of any of the castle staff. He snatched Orion away from his mother, and set barriers between them, thinking Saynella's womenly influence was what caused the budding of cowardice in the first place. As he grew older Storm's End became a hated name for Orion. He was forbidden to speak to his mother except in formal circumstances, and forced to participate in constant, grueling training often pitted against his more talented elder brother.
Perhaps Lord Robbas wished for his youngest son to rebel, to lash out and show the same lustful and shameless behavior of his brother. The constant negative attention ate away at Orion, molding him into a proper man in Lord Robbas' eyes, until at last, to his father's great delight he lost his soft spoken mannerisms, became boastful and arrogant, and lusted after the young girls in the castle and surrounding towns. He never matched his brother, but fought for his father's praise none the less in a contest as vain as it sounds. While Orion merely played the character for his father's benefit, Robbas II was that person, and so Orion failed, and failed again, never seeming to be enough. Their relationship strained, father and son spent more time apart and as Orion grew older, he became more independent in his thinking and actions. Their arguments often reverberate throughout Storm's End, and more oft then not Robbas would supplement his words with a open handed blow, with the force to leave bruises on Orion's face. Even he and his brother loathed each others presence. Robbas II found extra praise in putting down his younger brother. Play was something other brothers did, Robbas and Orion fought, and fought bitterly rarely showing quarter and Robbas almost always coming out on top. At the end of these 'bouts' Lord Robbas would often comment "It would be ill fitting for any son of mine to lose. As fortune would have it, he has never lost." Making Orion grind his teeth, curse aloud and fight again.
Orion’s fondest memories came from his time away from Storm’s End altogether. On his twelfth name day Lord Robbas sent him to squire with the Knight of Goldengrove, the venerable and notorious Ser Martyn Rowan. It was said he went through squires like he went through his foes, having lost seven to swords and arrows and accidents before Orion joined his service. Suspecting his father wished to see him dead Orion strove to spite him in this regard and be the first to survive the knight's alleged curse. Surprisingly Ser Martyn Rowan was not the ferocious taskmaster the stories claimed. He proved a dutiful teacher, and the first positive male influence in young Orion's life. Often times when their lives were in danger Ser Martyn would entrust Orion to momentous tasks ill suited to the skills of a mid adolescent, which was the true reason behind his many fallen squires. Orion proved adequate in this regard, and in the many battles he fought alongside the knight though narrowly surviving, he did indeed make it to his nineteenth name-day. He was soon after knighted, saying his vows and feeling the blade touch his shoulders seven times.
The knighting was the proudest moment in Orion's life up to that point and he rode home to Storm's End for the first time in years in triumph, to confront his father and prove that he was befitting of Lord Robbas' praise. The words were never to come. Ser Martyn had chipped away at the rough exterior Lord Robbas had so carefully fashioned around the impressionable Orion. Clearing away the haughty fake arrogance, the shameless displays, and crass behavior until Orion's true soft spoken and gentle nature returned. Lord Robbas was not presented with a proper 'man' as he expected, but a cowardly follower, a pretentious summer knight of the Reach, and no son of his.
Orion stormed from Storm's End in a rage after only two nights there, when the argument with his father became so fierce it ended in blows. Lord Robbas might very well have slain Orion outright for striking him, if Orion had remained to face such a fate. Instead the bitter Lord of Storm's End disowned his second son, and banished him from the Storm Lands on pain of punishment should he return. Orion had no intention of returning however, he fled back to Goldengrove, and later to King's Landing to serve in the court of the king at Ser Martyn's urging.
They were pulled from the front, those two brothers, despite their eager willingness to fight in that crucial spot. The tall hook nosed Tyroshi man Byden had come to despise, grabbed them by their ears and dragged them back into the middle of the growing formation, five or six ranks deep. It was hard to tell in the poorly organized press of bodies. He left them in the care of a older Westerosi, who claimed he was some bastard or another of a Ironborn king, Byden could not care less and only glared daggers at the back of the retreating Tyroshi. He did not know the man’s name, no one seemed to. All anyone was sure of was that he had a very hooked nose, and he was big and tough and was more or less in charge of this particular mercenary cohort. Byden scuffed the dirt with his sandals, thinking of all the things he would do or say to the big Tyroshi if they weren’t surrounded by ‘comrades’ and on the verge of a battle. The best of which ended in Byden knocking the man down, calling him a whoreson, and stomping his face until his teeth came free. He did not have much time to fantasize his dark thoughts. The lines were coming together, and men pressed in tight all around, heel to toe, shoulder to shoulder until Byden felt he could barely breathe. The stench caught in his throat, and it took everything he had not to retch on the man in front of him. After weeks of marching with every little bathing water the men had taken on a very sour smell, one that reminded Byden of old cheese stuffed within a rotting fish.
“Ye’d best put your fancy weapons away lads, you’re too far back in the line for them to be of much use to anyone.” The greybeard Ironborn was saying, in a melancholy way. “Spears will be the way forward, aye, and shields, keep them high. Archers will be loosing more than one volley our way ye can be sure of that. Typical for men back here to only die cause they didn’t keep their shields up. A good friend O’ mine died that way, we were near Maidenpool as I recall, and I told him, keep your shield up, I told him. But did he listen ye might be wondering?”
“Why did he put us here?” Byden groused, cutting across the greybeard’s boring tale. “We wanted to fight, not watch the glory-making from all the way back here.” Byden might have been new to proper warfare, but even he could see they were far to deep in the line for even their long spears to be employed. At least four ranks would have to fall before they could even consider fighting, and Byden had been told they numbered near ten thousand in total, while the enemy was some half of that. How anyone could count that high, or how they had accomplished such an impressive feat with the constant movement of the men he could not say. He had enough trouble just counting to a hundred, and that was when he had a ledger to make marks on, and every remained still and in neat orderly lines. Anyway, ten thousand shoulder surely smash half that, Byden reasoned, and his brother Tebyn had come to the same conclusion. Which meant, if they wished to wet their sword and club they would need to be in the front and middle where the fighting would be heaviest.
They risen earlier than normal, on the day some unknown force had determined the battle would take place, and found a good spot, right next to the bannerman and trumpeter. From that vantage they could even watch the enemy, in the shadowy morning light form up, and Tebyn who had the better eyes was calling out the different banners and colors he could see dancing above the heads of their foemen. Until the Tyroshi hook nose arrived, marching down the line and leering at the men in his stupid iron helm and red gambeson. He spotted them in a hurry, and with the strength no man should be afforded placed them so far back and behind so many tightly packed men even Tebyn couldn’t see the enemy lines, let alone their colors and insignia.
Their ironborn guardian did not mind being cut off from his tale, and he explained the Tyroshi's reasoning in simple terms, as if he was speaking to a pair of children. “Best count yourselves lucky he spotted ye lads. The Hook did you a service putting you back here. He wants skilled and blooded men up front, folk he’s seen killing and slaying and fighting before. He knows his men that one, and his battles.”
“I can fight, aye, and kill.” Tebyn insisted, and Byden chorused in righteous umbrage.
“Fight and kill with the best of them. You’ll see, he’s making a mistake pulling us away, and leaving those ancients. They look as if a strong breeze will blow them away!”
“In this army,” the greybeard countered. “They are like to be the only ones not blown away. You’re in a good spot, far enough away to run if things go bad, and close enough forward to chase and loot if they enemy breaks. Aye, the best spot.”
“More like the cowards spot.” Byden muttered.
Tebyn was more diplomatic however. “Will we be able to find some enemy to slay in battle? There is no glory in chasing down a man and shoving a dagger in his back…”
The greybeard shrugged. “Who can say, ye might find a few who will fight you, whom you can slay if that be your wish.”
“Wish!” Byden snorted incredulously. “Why in the name of the Seven would anyone be here if not to kill someone?”
The greybeard shrugged again, he did that a lot Byden noticed. Perhaps because the raising and lowering one's shoulders was the most expressive gesture one could hope for in the tight formation. “Pay is good I suppose, never killed a man myself, and never wanted to.”
Byden could feel his temper flaring and he began spewing forth a stream of curses and oaths in three different languages he had learned on the way there. He was a sailor after all, and had the mouth to prove it. They had marched, and stood watches in uncomfortable conditions for weeks, only, on the precipice of a great battle be forced into the care of a coward, far from any fighting behind a force of men who would be wetting their swords, and hoarding all the glory. Even Tebyn, who normally had twice the patience looked frustrated, and rightly so Byden thought. They were being cheated, and it was all the fault of the big Tyroshi man who fancied himself an officer. The few marks and coins they would make would never justify this shit he reasoned. Byden resolved to shove his spear through the back of the big Tyroshi’s throat should he happen to see him and get the chance, that at least would be justice in part.
Much the same as his father, and his father before him Tytan Annordale is an audacious, headstrong man filled with life and love and strength. He is a social person, mingling easily with the high and lowborn alike, and is well known for his fair company. His friendly nature is compounded by a strong sense of competitiveness, in the physical and romantic sides of life. He feels the need to perfect himself, to act in a manner worthy of his predecessors, and for the most part this goal is achievable. The Knights Annordale have always served House Mallister of Seagard, since his great grandfather was first raised into Mallister service from lowly levies, to landed knights of the Ironman's Bay. Defending the shores, and throwing the Ironborn reavers back into the sea from whence they came. As such Tytan is a man of spartan tastes, simple and direct, preferring straightforward and apt violent solutions over tricks and wile.
Bio:
Long before Tytan was born the Ironborn reavers would sail ashore in the night and avail themselves to the bounty of the Riverlands. The proud raiders would rape and steal and burn their way across the lands of House Mallister, and Ironman's Bay, keeping to the coast and vanishing like smoke before armed resistance could be mustered. One such day near two hundred Ironborn traveled far burning a village and taking with them salt-wives and a harvest of the field. Lord Mallister rallied his knights and lancers riding in pursuit of the Ironborn, but they were to close to the coast, and had merely to cross a wide river to escape to their longships. Upon arriving at the bridge across the Ironborn found ten levied men, lowborn, with simple arms and armor whose homes had been raided previously. They held the bridge, refusing to move aside, standing firm behind their shields even under a hail of arrows and spears. Knowing Lord Mallister would soon arrive the Ironborn ordered the men aside, saying they would spare their lives if only they give up their weapons and yield the bridge. One man, armed with a rusting mace and chain stood firm ahead of all the others and gave their response. "Come. Take it."
The Ironborn tried. Again and again they charged hoping to break the levies with force of numbers, but the narrow bridge afford the tightly packed footmen the advantage and they threw the Ironborn back each time. The Ironborn tried fire, they tried arrows and spears, they tried swords and axes, fist and tooth and nail. They tried swimming the river but sharp eyed bowmen from the bridge picked them off in the water. In one last desperate push the Ironborn made some headway, slaying all but one of the defenders, and it was in that near moment of triumph that Lord Mallister fell upon their rear and slaughtered them to a man, not that there were many left. Those few held back two hundred and slew or maimed near a hundred and thirty.
The sole surviving man was named Falvor, a farm hand turned vengeful warrior. The man armed with mace and chain. Lord Mallister gave Falvor to his own maester, who tended his many wounds. Once he was healed Lord Mallister knighted him Ser Falvor Annordale for the river he held, and offered lands and a tower seat close to the shore, even squiring the man's son himself, all for his courage and dedication. Ever since that day the sons of Annordale have served closely with the Mallister's, even once acting as castellan for Seagard. Tytan Annordale was born into this way of life and service for the Mallisters. He was squired by a Mallister son, acquitting himself admirably and was knighted for his efforts young at nineteen. His friendly nature afforded him many fast friends located along the Ironman's Bay, and he would spend many days riding up and down the coastline with his young companions, hunting, and fighting among other acts of youthful pleasure. They found little in the way of proper battle there, the Ironborn had long been beaten and cowed, and only the occasional scrap could be fought. He was sure this perpetual peace would last forever, and his lust for battle would never be stated. However, single moon cycle after Tytan's twenty-first nameday, Lord Hoster Tully called the banners. The Riverlord had allied himself with the rebels Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Robert Baratheon dragging the Riverlands into the war. Glory was on the horizon, Lord Mallister of Seagard was rallying his knights and levies to join Lord Hoster Tully at Riverun, and fighting in the Stormlands had already begun. The war was brewing fast and young Ser Tytan Annordale planned to be in the thick of it.
Father: Ser Gregory Annordale, a man of forty with silvering blonde hair and stern eyes.
Mother: Lady Saylla Annordale nee Keemon, a women in her late thirties and beautiful enough.
Sisters: Lollen Annordale, a girl just reaching fifteen and Tytan's younger sister, who just so happened to be very popular amongst his friends.
Equipment:
All Annordale's carry both longsword and the fabled mace and chain, simple weapons passed down from generation to generation. Tytan only just came into possession of the ancestral device, and can wield it with apparent skill, but he would rather draw his sword then twirl about the cumbersome spiked mace. Instead it serves as a signifier more than anything else, and he carries it strapped to his horse's saddle, where should the situation dictate, it can be drawn and employed. Lance and shield are always a must for knightly cavalry, and Tytan carries them as well, the shield hung across his back, and the lance strapped opposite of the mace, pointing up towards the sky like a thin sapling.
Armor/Clothing
Tytan has never been one for undue finery. He wears simple garb, wool breaches and a black leather doublet with the sigil of his family emblazoned over his heart. For armor he dons a ringmail huaberk, a mail coif with a black tabbard over it. Mail gauntlets and a steel bascinet protects his hands and head whilst a studded black mail skirt protects his upper legs. Across his chest, and on his shield are the blaze of red fire and the spiked mace and chain that signifies the Annordale's.
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