Name: Bolin
Age: 31
Appearance:
Slightly above average height, but not necessarily tall, he stands at around 6'1". Muscular, but not in the bulky sense, he has the lean muscles of an experienced swordsman. His neck length black hair is pushed back behind his ears, and is already beginning to be flecked with grey. Startling green eyes look out from his weathered face, which is usually shadowed with stubble.
Personality:
He isn't cruel or sadistic, but is always willing to do what needs to be done, he would not hesitate to kill an innocent to save his own skin. In less serious moments he is constantly poking fun, with a tendency to rub people the wrong way with his jibes and comments (it's a good job he's as quick with his sword as he is with his tongue). He is motivated not by the thought of helping others, but the thought of helping himself. Although he would not admit it, it is a tiring life the one he leads. But retirement is a rich mans pastime, and a rich man he is not.
Class: Somewhere between a warrior and a rogue
Although he fights primarily with a broad sword, there is no honour or fancy flourishes when he fights, he does whatever is needed to win and isn't afraid to fight dirty. If the option presented itself, he would always prefer to slit his opponents throat from behind, not out of cowardice but simply because it is the more practical approach.
Alignment: Mischievous/Ruthless
Weapon(s):
At his belt hangs a battleworn broadsword with many nicks along its blade, a short dagger, and a few throwing knives. He isn't trained in the arts of magik.
Armor/Clothing:
He wears a worn leather cuirass and leather leg plates over a plain jersey and trousers (favouring mobility over protection), covered with his trusty hooded cloak. On his feet he wears a pair of incredibly worn in boots.
Personal trinkets:
His dagger from Brammus.
Short History:
Born in an inconsequential village in the north, his father and mother toiled in fields for coin, which meant that their sudden flu and following death left him no fortune. Finding himself 7 years old and without a home or parents, he was forced to beg in the streets. Realising he would soon starve or freeze to death on the meagre pickings of his home village he set off in the direction of the nearest town. After several days walking, with no food and little water he collapsed.
Waking to the smell of cooking meat and a blanket over him, he discovered he had been happened upon by a caravan of traders. One of the sellswords guarding the caravan (a man called Brammus), had spotted him and took him with them to their camp. Brammus took him under his wing, bringing him along on his travels and showing him how to swing a sword, how to handle his ale and most importantly an encyclopaedic knowledge of insults and swears.
It wasn't until he was 16, that he finally bested Brammus in one of their practice duels, and was allowed to fight alongside him on their missions. Three years later, Brammus took a crossbow bolt to the leg when a group of bandits attacked and whilst not initially fatal, the wound became septic and he died a couple of weeks later.
Since then he has followed in Brammus' path, living the life of a sellsword. A month or so on the road defending a caravan of goods or a nobleman, followed by a week or so in some tavern or another indulging himself and making short work of his wages.
His most recent job was a trade caravan headed for Galloway, and now that it's done, time to find the nearest tavern, he hears the ale here is some of the best in the land...