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sillykinsName: Gerard Segremors
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Appearance:
A man hammered into the shape of violence. Gerard stands at roughly average height for a warrior, somewhere in the nebulous range between 5'10 and 5'11, and upon his well-trained frame he wears the battlefields his amber-colored eyes have seen. His skin is rather fair, but pockmarked with a network of light, faded scars, each its own lesson learned on the job. As one might expect, repeated brushes with death have similarly weathered his gaze, going alight at the prospect of battle and burning like small suns in its midst— only to fade into reservation outside of it. He's not necessarily guarded or unapproachable in his posture— but rather, seems almost content with quietly fading into the throng, as though the pressures of having a face to his name are unexpected, and unfamiliar. His hair is a coarse, happily untamed mat that falls near his eyes, and black like coal. Probably cleans up rather handsomely, in theory, but is better used as a gauge for how tense a room is— if things are brewing, he'll feel it, he'll be ready. His casual wear is all simple, dark colors, but never far from either some weapon or armoring.
Personality: Gerard is seemingly caught in the interstice between his erstwhile profession and the chivlarous future of which he'd dared not dream. At his core, he's still the reserved, idealistic farm boy that grew up on the many tales of Thaln's heroes of ages past, still believing in the ideals of knighthood— Justice, Order, Compassion, Charity, Piety. That the stark realities and cruel injustices of the world exist to be overcome by the chase of heroism. That he's doing the right thing. but mercenary life has checked those ideals with bloodshed, fury, and the many cruelties mankind has endured by its own hand.
The result is a man that seems to be at odds with himself, ever so subtly. He is wholly unfamiliar with courtly manner, brusque and bordering on impertinent with his words, but simultaneously self-effacing, earnestly humble among his peers within the Order, at times even bordering on reverence for knighthood as a concept. While he can join tavern brawls heartily and nestles in right at home in rowdy, bawdy atmospheres like those he shared with his mercenary band, on his own he seems more than a little quiet compared to the stereotypes suggested by his background, indulging in his own contemplation during solitary moments such as training in the yards in the early morning. He would give his life for his fellows— and the cause they undertake.
His conviction, however, is unquestionable. Gerard is devoted to the new life he leads, having leapt at the chance to join the knightly order and become an outright force for good. There are many cruelties in this world that he, as a man and knight, cannot abide. He's seen them all, time and time again, as his chosen trade ground each test of his faith into his body and mind.
Enough for him to, without a second thought, take up the sword once more to put them to an end, to drag evil into Reon's burning light.
One way, or the other.
Brief Backstory: Born to a small family in a small village in Thaln's northwestern fiefs that borders a large stretch of woodland, Gerard (Gellért in the village dialect) grew up like many other rural boys— hunting, fishing, and making merry within the woods whenever not set to work with his father in the fields. With such a proximity to the border with Velt, he was raised quite obviously adherent to the Church's teachings, in his case as a Reonite, and was instilled with a strong sense of justice and wonder for the tales of knightly virtue and valor championing Her Paladins. He grew into a strong, hardworking lad, more than fit for any path he chose in life— And when a mercenary corps espousing the virtues of fighting the good fight for the Goddesses and making a living through your sword, perhaps even proving yourself worthy of knighthood? He was sold.
And just like that, the sixteen year old boy walked into Hell. A country bumpkin with a strong back and a steady hand was, at the end of the day, still a country bumpkin. He fell for the pitch hook, line, and sinker. Spending years fighting pointlessly, seeing lives waste away, and people trod upon as lower than dirt, it wore heavily on Gerard. At times, his faith in justice was tested, at others, it was all that kept him pushing forward. Year after year, battle after battle, the weathering took so many things from the boy, now just behind the tip of the spear in each engagement— his illusions of war's glory. His naiveite regarding his purpose, and his future.
Hell, they even got his face. They'd been called "Franz's Faceless" by anyone who knew of them for a reason, despite officially being the much vaguer "Black Regiment".
Regardless, the band of mercenaries was by no means incompetent— their captain lead with a firm, measured hand, the quartermaster had a frank outlook on weaponry and training recruits, and in the end they did indeed follow the tenants of Reon by capturing a particularly well-defended encampment of slavers holed up in one of the ruins dotting Velt. For their efforts, the group was disbanded shortly after, the take large enough and pardons convincing enough for the leadership to call it a wrap— and folded into the Church of Reon's militant arm if they so wished. Fearing disillusionment but chasing a lifelong dream as closely as he could, young Gellért accepted, and soon after was recruited into the Order of the Iron Rose. He continues to pursue his idealized image of a knight with a desperate fervor, and it permeates his every moment.
Equipment: A fairly standard longsword of just over a meter's length from pommel to tip, a well-kept kit of half-plate as he cannot yet afford a full, custom-fitted suit. A sturdy, large knife for general survival purposes (both clearing brush and sliding through gaps in armor, should need arise). Should his favored weapon be unusable for whatever reason, he has a penchant for making due with whatever he can find. A beggar is never a chooser on the field.
Skills: While not an exemplary swordsman like the order's founder, he is schooled well for a mercenary and trains vigorously to improve his mastery, day in and day out. His style is rooted in simplicity and pragmatism, at times even leaning near brutality compared to the romanticized and beautiful swordplay of the ideal knight he wishes to evoke, a carryover of life as a soldier-for-hire. A trained, keen eye can spot many similarities to properly denoted longsword fencing technique within various Fechtbücher beneath the roughness of it— the kid's fundamentals are there, simply learned secondhand as opposed to the traditional knight's manuals, and applied with a dash of that distinct recklessness of the expendable. Vicious, pragmatic, and fully committed, thoughts fall away as the body is taken by a wartime trance. It's no pretty thing, but it's gotten him this far.
In addition, he is quite comfortable with a wide variety of other tools and weapons, such as spears or handaxes. He had to make do with what was on hand for much of his life— both as a man-at-arms and as a simple boy from the woodlands. He is a natural at speaking to common folk on their level, and holds a host of skills found in a boy whose childhood was spent within Thaln's countryside. Has a mild moderate problem, however, with prioritizing his own safety— it's an act that he is still learning to no longer refrain from.
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Appearance:
A man hammered into the shape of violence. Gerard stands at roughly average height for a warrior, somewhere in the nebulous range between 5'10 and 5'11, and upon his well-trained frame he wears the battlefields his amber-colored eyes have seen. His skin is rather fair, but pockmarked with a network of light, faded scars, each its own lesson learned on the job. As one might expect, repeated brushes with death have similarly weathered his gaze, going alight at the prospect of battle and burning like small suns in its midst— only to fade into reservation outside of it. He's not necessarily guarded or unapproachable in his posture— but rather, seems almost content with quietly fading into the throng, as though the pressures of having a face to his name are unexpected, and unfamiliar. His hair is a coarse, happily untamed mat that falls near his eyes, and black like coal. Probably cleans up rather handsomely, in theory, but is better used as a gauge for how tense a room is— if things are brewing, he'll feel it, he'll be ready. His casual wear is all simple, dark colors, but never far from either some weapon or armoring.
Personality: Gerard is seemingly caught in the interstice between his erstwhile profession and the chivlarous future of which he'd dared not dream. At his core, he's still the reserved, idealistic farm boy that grew up on the many tales of Thaln's heroes of ages past, still believing in the ideals of knighthood— Justice, Order, Compassion, Charity, Piety. That the stark realities and cruel injustices of the world exist to be overcome by the chase of heroism. That he's doing the right thing. but mercenary life has checked those ideals with bloodshed, fury, and the many cruelties mankind has endured by its own hand.
The result is a man that seems to be at odds with himself, ever so subtly. He is wholly unfamiliar with courtly manner, brusque and bordering on impertinent with his words, but simultaneously self-effacing, earnestly humble among his peers within the Order, at times even bordering on reverence for knighthood as a concept. While he can join tavern brawls heartily and nestles in right at home in rowdy, bawdy atmospheres like those he shared with his mercenary band, on his own he seems more than a little quiet compared to the stereotypes suggested by his background, indulging in his own contemplation during solitary moments such as training in the yards in the early morning. He would give his life for his fellows— and the cause they undertake.
His conviction, however, is unquestionable. Gerard is devoted to the new life he leads, having leapt at the chance to join the knightly order and become an outright force for good. There are many cruelties in this world that he, as a man and knight, cannot abide. He's seen them all, time and time again, as his chosen trade ground each test of his faith into his body and mind.
Enough for him to, without a second thought, take up the sword once more to put them to an end, to drag evil into Reon's burning light.
One way, or the other.
Brief Backstory: Born to a small family in a small village in Thaln's northwestern fiefs that borders a large stretch of woodland, Gerard (Gellért in the village dialect) grew up like many other rural boys— hunting, fishing, and making merry within the woods whenever not set to work with his father in the fields. With such a proximity to the border with Velt, he was raised quite obviously adherent to the Church's teachings, in his case as a Reonite, and was instilled with a strong sense of justice and wonder for the tales of knightly virtue and valor championing Her Paladins. He grew into a strong, hardworking lad, more than fit for any path he chose in life— And when a mercenary corps espousing the virtues of fighting the good fight for the Goddesses and making a living through your sword, perhaps even proving yourself worthy of knighthood? He was sold.
And just like that, the sixteen year old boy walked into Hell. A country bumpkin with a strong back and a steady hand was, at the end of the day, still a country bumpkin. He fell for the pitch hook, line, and sinker. Spending years fighting pointlessly, seeing lives waste away, and people trod upon as lower than dirt, it wore heavily on Gerard. At times, his faith in justice was tested, at others, it was all that kept him pushing forward. Year after year, battle after battle, the weathering took so many things from the boy, now just behind the tip of the spear in each engagement— his illusions of war's glory. His naiveite regarding his purpose, and his future.
Hell, they even got his face. They'd been called "Franz's Faceless" by anyone who knew of them for a reason, despite officially being the much vaguer "Black Regiment".
Regardless, the band of mercenaries was by no means incompetent— their captain lead with a firm, measured hand, the quartermaster had a frank outlook on weaponry and training recruits, and in the end they did indeed follow the tenants of Reon by capturing a particularly well-defended encampment of slavers holed up in one of the ruins dotting Velt. For their efforts, the group was disbanded shortly after, the take large enough and pardons convincing enough for the leadership to call it a wrap— and folded into the Church of Reon's militant arm if they so wished. Fearing disillusionment but chasing a lifelong dream as closely as he could, young Gellért accepted, and soon after was recruited into the Order of the Iron Rose. He continues to pursue his idealized image of a knight with a desperate fervor, and it permeates his every moment.
Equipment: A fairly standard longsword of just over a meter's length from pommel to tip, a well-kept kit of half-plate as he cannot yet afford a full, custom-fitted suit. A sturdy, large knife for general survival purposes (both clearing brush and sliding through gaps in armor, should need arise). Should his favored weapon be unusable for whatever reason, he has a penchant for making due with whatever he can find. A beggar is never a chooser on the field.
Skills: While not an exemplary swordsman like the order's founder, he is schooled well for a mercenary and trains vigorously to improve his mastery, day in and day out. His style is rooted in simplicity and pragmatism, at times even leaning near brutality compared to the romanticized and beautiful swordplay of the ideal knight he wishes to evoke, a carryover of life as a soldier-for-hire. A trained, keen eye can spot many similarities to properly denoted longsword fencing technique within various Fechtbücher beneath the roughness of it— the kid's fundamentals are there, simply learned secondhand as opposed to the traditional knight's manuals, and applied with a dash of that distinct recklessness of the expendable. Vicious, pragmatic, and fully committed, thoughts fall away as the body is taken by a wartime trance. It's no pretty thing, but it's gotten him this far.
In addition, he is quite comfortable with a wide variety of other tools and weapons, such as spears or handaxes. He had to make do with what was on hand for much of his life— both as a man-at-arms and as a simple boy from the woodlands. He is a natural at speaking to common folk on their level, and holds a host of skills found in a boy whose childhood was spent within Thaln's countryside. Has a mild moderate problem, however, with prioritizing his own safety— it's an act that he is still learning to no longer refrain from.
