Name: Harwyn Storm
Alias: Red Harry
Age: A score of years and ten, or thereabouts. Recordkeeping of peasant births is iffy.
He inherited auburn hair from one or the other side of his family tree that streaks ginger in the sunlight. Around six feet, the most notable thing about him is his arms; the shoulders are muscled, and the arms quite long from years, starting in childhood, of bending the bow. His clothing is a well-made mishmash of battlefield scavenging, including boots that are his pride and joy, lovingly taken off some Pentoshi noble in the aftermath of some fight in the Disputed Lands. His feet have not ached since. He does wear a length of scarf about his neck that he can wrap about his head to protect from sun and dust. He has a dusting of freckles, but after years in the sun his skin finally stopped going lobster red with exposure.
Harry is perfectly content to smile at milord and knuckle his brow...and then plot that bastard's demise. There has never been anything fair about his life, including the fights and he handles things accordingly. While he has a rough code of ethics with people whom he knows, the world is divided into him, us and them, with most people falling under the 'them' category. Harry looks out for himself, will not break a word given to 'us' and 'them' are the ones he would do it to first before they can do it to him. It's a hard old world. Harry does not let slights go, but will bide his time patiently. With a penchant for losing gold as quickly he obtains it, he manages to scrape by in any number of ways.
Born a bastard in the Marches to a woman already married, Harry's lot as literally the red headed stepchild was not the best. His mother's husband, however, was a forester. He had little use for his Lord's bastard sired upon his wife, and the solution to his rage that didn't involve talking about his Lordship or his brother, Harry's actual father, was to give Harry the casual back of his fist. Harry's half-brother was more than a decade older and took little Harry under his wing with teaching him the ways of the trade, until a winter illness took him, along with the forester.
By that time, Harry was old enough to poach and support the rest of his mother's brood and did so with a casual disregard for the rights of His Lordship.
He didn't fancy the Wall and ran. It was better for everyone, including his mother's non-bastard children.
He washed up in the Free Cities after a disastrous stint as a galley crewman, and swore never to be used like that again. It was just as well that there were campaigns in the Disputed Lands afoot and the companies were hungry for bodies. While initially recruited to hold a spear, he managed to make his skills very evident in fighting for the Stormcrows once he had hands on a bow.
The career since then has been fighting in campaign after campaign, looting for gold, losing the money quickly and turning briefly to merchant caravan guard duty only to be bilked out of his pay on the first engagement, which led him right to vengeance and banditry, his typical peacetime practice when there is, surprisingly, no fight brewing in the disputed lands. He has made a reputation for himself as an archer, however, and that makes companies keen to hire him when there's a fight, though leery of keeping a bored, indolent and thieving Harry on the payroll -- garrison duty, keeping the peace and whatnot, is certainly asking the fox to guard the henhouse.
Longbow archery, something a man has to be raised to in order to draw a true longbow. A childhood of forestry and an adulthood of horse thievery, caravan banditry and poaching have made him quite light on his feet. He would have made an exemplary ranger in the Night's Watch. He is not castle-trained to arms, however, so his hand-to-hand fighting involves knowing how to slip a knife under visors, or swinging an axe or hammer to defend himself. He is a skilled bowyer and fletcher and knows butchery well enough. He knows something of tanning hides and making leather, and of sewing as well, though he is no seamstress or cobbler. He can fix it, but there's no way he's making it from scratch.
Notably, Red Harry is not literate.
A longbow, spare strings, wax, case and all else that is needed to keep a bowstave in exemplary shape.
A poinard for stabbing through a visor.
A short sword, which also is good for stabbing.
Arrows, fletchings, glue and the like to make more arrows.
A breastplate, scarred and dented, battlefield salvage, but good steel.
A blue and white check-patterned soft cloth scarf wrapped around his neck, but that can be pulled up to shield his head and face. It keeps the breastplate from chafing.
Sallet, which once had a visor, also scarred and taken from the battlefield. There is a strap to hang it off a belt when not in use.
A well-made bracer, stitched with great care.
A good skinning knife.
A good carving knife.
Sailcloth with a hood and sleeves, pulled over when it rains.
A fine pair of boots, a bit scuffed but definite quality.
Waterskins, a sack and straps to carry on his back.
Some ancient civilization talisman on a leather string that's a good luck charm. It's worthless or he would have sold it.
Rope and some other climbing items. He's learned, the hard way, that it's good to have a way down a wall or out of a town that doesn't involve asking nicely at the gate.
Odds, ends, incidentals.