Leidenschaft — Roleplayer Guild

Character Name:
Renart

Age:
33

Race:
Breton

Sex:
Male

Birthsign:
The Lover

Specialisation:
Combat

Class:
Pilgrim - “Hearty folk, (not really) well-versed in the tomes of old. They profit in life by bartering in the market, or by persuading the weak-minded.”

Skills:
Expert Skill (Marksman)
Journeyman Skills (Mercantile, Spech, Blunt)
Apprentice Skills (Light Armor, Block, One-Handed)
Crafting Skills (Fletching)

Appearance:

Renart has a good face for getting out of trouble and a good face for ending it before it starts. It is somewhat commanding, framed by a blond beard whose mustache does not connect with it. An easygoing smile almost always graces his lips and he chews on something, whether it is a toothpick or a shoot of grain. His body holds the telltale signs of manual labor, but not too much of it if he can help it, broad in the shoulders and thick in the limbs. He holds a quiet sense of confidence about him though he is a lackadaisical man. Even so, he tries to appear less than he is to avoid being noticed- either by undesirable individuals or those looking for him to volunteer for something.

Personality:
Renart is good with words and was always good at keeping a poker-face. He was content with his lot in life, consisting of whiling away the days playing cards and going out on the town. He did his fair share of lying and cheating and it has gotten him into his fair share of trouble. He has a knack for gambling, but when one gambles, they may win but it is a rule that you lose sometimes. With better men, they lined their troubles up and knocked them down one at a time with a vigorous rubbing of palms to get ready for the honest work.

His method was to stay as under the waves as he could so as not to accrue any kind of troubles. Speaking of hard, honest work, he tries not to mess with the stuff. Better to have a boring day and get paid for it than end up bleeding for a handful of coin. After all, what good is gold if you aren't alive to spend it? Renart is a man who is a steadfast friend of the weak if they can pay, a righteous defender if he thinks he can live to see the end of the ordeal, and a loyal companion if it isn't too hard to be. A man with ideals higher than he's willing to reach for, the only time he'll leap to action is if he's badgered about it enough, drunk enough or if it lies in the way of him seeing a lax tomorrow filled with drink, merriment and women.

Backstory:
Renart grew up in Anvil to a merchant family with holdings as far away as Pelletine and Hammerfell. Appropriately for a merchant's son, he was given lessons in being a gentleman and a trader. His lessons were in navigation, logistics, mercantile, economics and the gentlemanly arts of marksmanship and fencing. He surrounded himself with people of his like, as if his parents would let him be in the presence of scoundrels. His life was a leisurely one, whiling away the days playing cards and other such things and spending his nights on the town.

It was a life of hum-drum leisure and decadence. He thought nothing of it, knowing that his father did tend to meet with some less-than-reputable looking characters at times, but he brushed it off as the intricacies of mercantilism and went on his merry way. All was well, until the town guard barged into their home one night and hauled his father off to jail. This, of course, struck a mighty blow to the de Perceval merchant family. Not as hard a blow as would be struck by the revelation of his father's crimes.

It turned out that Guy de Perceval was engaged in smuggling not only stolen objects and poached skins and meats, but also illicit substances. Moon Sugar and Skooma was what lined the de Perceval manor's vaults with money and it would be enough to topple the de Perceval name knowing that the money was tracked back to the Renrijra Krin. Renart's mother took her own life and Renart, being an only child, was left destitute. None of his friends would take him in knowing the stock he was bred from and the manner in which his family made their money.

He hung his head low and enlisted in the Imperial Legion, desperate for a new start somewhere far away from Anvil. He endured the two months of training it took to become a Legionnaire of the Empire and was sent off to Fort Satternus, named after some  hero of the Legion that did... something. His lessons of the Legion's history had gone in one ear and out the other. Legion life went by much the same, if not a little more boring and regimented than that of his former civilian life.

It was one day that he had the idea of playing others for something more than fun. Soon, he was playing cards for a fellow Legionnaire's extra boots, or his leftover rations. People would come to him because while he may have charged more than the Fort's Quartermaster, his product was premium, some of his stock won from the outside world from traders come to Bruma with foreign and well-made wares whenever his unit got their leave.

His days of easy sailing as a Munifex in the good Legion's Cavalry Scouts of the Fifth Legion would come to an end when the annual wargames reared their head in his unit's direction. He managed to capture a camp and seize the supplies of the opposing team and ambush a sizeable contingent marching along the roads. A decisive victory, owed to Munifex Renart and his detachment. He was promoted to Decanus and was second-in-command of his Contubernium under his best friend Quaestor Maricus. Ten men, all having to listen to his say-so. At least while Maricus was away.

Another year went by and it was time for yearly raises. Camp Praefect Miribella, a pretty thing from Skingrad and a woman who appreciated a good pair of Colovian leather boots and Honningbrew Import won from a trader from Falkreath had a few good words to put in for Decanus Renart. He was promoted to Quaestor and put in charge of a different Contubernium, ill-fatedly stationed in Fort Leonhart, a small forward post in High Rock. It was a curse, as war started in High Rock after a bout of political hijinks. The 5th Legion did what they apparently always did; sat tight and didn't meddle in the war unless it was absolutely needed. Things like this happen all the time in High Rock, he was told, and he didn't know if he felt reassured at the calmness of his fellow soldiers or disturbed at the fact these Bretons had such a habit for warring and scheming.

It was on a routine patrol that he and the soldiers under him were caught in a raid on a village, where he would meet his peculiar traveling companion, a man named Engel. They were branded enemies, their Imperial uniforms nothing of a deterrent to aggression. He helped the villagers as well as he could, even earning a victory after half his contubernium and many of the villagers were killed in the battle. Though bloodied and beaten, he was thanked by the villagers and sent off with gifts and goodwill. He did not feel like a hero, as some called him. He felt like a commander who'd done the worst he could've done for the men under his command. And for all his doubts, regrets, and anger he was commended. Given a medal for his bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, he looked at it as something to be disgusted at.

Life in the Legion went on and soon it was time for promotions. Quaestor Renart was bumped up to Praefect Renart, something they said was long due for a man of his actions and mettle. He'd since been doing his best to get past those events in the village, but when he heard that it was burned down some time after he and his contubernium had left, he petitioned the Legate to bring the Empire's justice on whichever nobleman had ordered the sacking of the village. Nothing came of it, the lives lost- the legion lives lost too- were out of their control. It was 'the hazards of working in a Province as turbulent as High Rock.'

He retired shortly after his pending appointment to Praefect had been pushed through. He bid his men farewell after those years of service and wandered looking for any work, selling the odd thing he picks up while playing cards and trading when he can. He met his old acquaintance, Engel, not that long after his retirement and the two began to travel together. After some time of wandering, he came to Kvatch when he heard that he could earn a large sum of money for betting on the fights there. Then, well, things happened.

Spells:
None

Inventory:
Cash: 27 septims

Keys and Lockpicks: None

Tools and Crafting Materials: Extra heads for his bolts, extra shafts, feathers for cutting flights and a knife for trimming flights. A small iron mold for making melting down scavenged metal from the battlefield and making new heads for his bolts.

Clothing and Armor: Clad in a thick green gambeson, and thick black hose descending into a pair of brown Colovian leather boots that look to be of fine make, leather gloves tucked into his swordbelt if not on his hands. He is kept warm by a red cloak and his fine leather gloves are lined with fur on the inside. Atop his head is a simple traveler's hood. He keeps a steel cuirass and a steel skullcap helm with a hinged noseguard packed away in his bags with the arming cap that goes under it.

Weapon and Ammunition: His crossbow was one he won off of a mercenary from Morrowind, a thing of custom make with a stock for extra stability when aiming and a crank that makes the rearming of the string and the reloading process roughly six seconds.
20 bolts for his crossbow
A steel hammer with a pick on the opposite side and a steel buckler
A broad-in-breadth, thick-bladed cleaving knife at the small of his back, blade a foot in length

Potion and Arcane Supplies:

Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: He stole the standard of the 5th Legion Mounted Scouts Cohort he was gifted during the short time he was a Praefect. He also has his medals tucked away in his baggage.

Books and Documents: His papers listing his commendations, notes of promotion and his discharge papers.

Food, Drinks and Ingredients: On cart: Three bottles of Colovian Whiskey, three bottles of ale, 

On horse: A bundle of cured sausages as well as a heel of bread, two fresh apples, and a bottle of mead.

Load Bearing Equipment: A horse and a cart, the horse is for riding, the cart is for carrying his meager supply of wares.

Other: On Cart: Two pairs of Colovian leather boots, seven silk shirts claimed to be from Elsweyr but are really from High Rock, two swords in the Hammerfell style made from steel, a steel sword claimed to be skyforge steel but is really a cheaply made replica.

Character Name:
Engel the Carver

Age:
30

Race:
Breton

Sex:
Male

Birthsign:
Warrior

Specialisation:
Combat

Class:
Warrior - “Unafraid of light weaponry, they plow into the fray with little regard for injury. Masters of all melee tools, they put little faith in the magical arts.”

Skills:
Expert Skill (Blunt)
Journeyman Skills (Marksman, Sneak, One-Handed)
Apprentice Skills (Light Armor, Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand)

Appearance:

Engel was not a small child, nor was he blessed with height. The same can be said of Engel the man. He is not tall but tall enough, he boasts no astounding bulk, but his body is hardened by toil of the land. Callused hands, thick fingers, nails bitten and dirty. He is not beautiful nor is he ugly. A pair of sad blue eyes are often affixed on some point that is nowhere near, as if remembering something long past and fretful.

Personality:
Engel is a gentle man, a meek and quiet one, who shares his kindness freely with others. He is a good friend, a loyal man and a steady companion. Underneath, he is a spring coiled back in wait for trouble. He yearns to meet each challenge with the violence born into him. He has the mind of a wolf and the soul of a lamb, the clashing of the two making his days on Nirn a storm. He feels right among blood, the struggle between two opposing forces where only one may prevail rages in him. When the fight is done and he sees the truth of what he's wrought, he seeks guidance and forgiveness on his knees with clasped hands before the Gods.

Backstory:
At the age of ten, Engel took a rock and smashed it against Albren's head. Two boys had tried to pin Engel's runt of a brother- Robben- against the Old Tree while Albren took a sharp stick and jabbed it at his stomach. They both ran away, one getting up clutching his nose, the other spitting blood. Albren lay on his back, staring up at the blue sky. He begged his brother not to tell of what he'd done but it was no use. Children are bad liars, as they've yet to learn that too much honesty is like too much poppy-milk.

The children stayed away from him- all of them except his brother- whispering 'killer' at his back. Even after he was washed of his sins and the anger of the act in the river, the names followed him for the rest of his days on. He'd felt different after that, because even as he'd looked the priest in the eye and repented his anger, it tasted of lies. There was no anger, just the thrill of it. Even so, Engel would fight no more and did not trouble himself with the petty things life in the village offered him, even if it was not in his nature to do so.

The smoke of the nobles' quarrels blackened the sky often during the summers and each night he would look out at the stars and wonder what it must be to take up sword and shield and fight. Not for a cause, not to place this lord or that on a chair. But just to test himself against the challenge of life balanced on a sharp edge. There was something in him, something sharp, that pushed him to meet each challenge with the violence written through him. Not the anger of a drunk or the scorn of a lover, but just a thing as natural as breathing. 

He'd told this to his brother on the night he'd packed his things and set off to join any army marching for any cause on his fourteenth name-day. Robben just assured him that it'd pass and he believed him, though it tore at him all that night that he hadn't left. The summers went past and like the seasons, Engel changed. He grew with the wheat, tall enough and hard enough from working the land with his father. His brother was still thin and short, though he'd grown too. Engel had almost settled into the life a farmer, the urge to run off and join in the wars diminished little by little each year. It was soon enough that he found a girl, Sybille.

Engel and Sybille married in the village church. Engel built his own farmstead, planted his own fields and even had his own two sons and a daughter delivered into his own hands, rough and wrong as it felt, it too felt good. He'd found a sort of peace in the arms of his wife and his children wrapped up in his own. Soon, there came days when old pains were stirred again by war. His father's crops were burned on the first week of summer. They found him hanged and Engel did not want to think about what they would've done to his mother had she still been alive after the Rockjoint. His wife and children were the only things that kept him firmly in his stead, and also his brother who had arrived on his doorstep, still alive.

He did not know if the bandits that came to his home dressed as the Lord's men were the same that came to his father's, but they'd tried to do the same to his home. He met them at the fringes of his land with some legionnaires under the command of a man named Renart- whose friendship would become invaluable to him, more than the man knows- offered the bandits a share of his crops, offered some of his sheep, and even when that did not work- remembering the words of the priests- he offered them the whole of his livestock if they would leave in peace. But some men only want to burn because they can. He gave them every chance, but when they would not take them, he killed their two messengers swiftly. He was too late though, his house had been burned with his family inside.

The battle raged on for an hour that felt like ten. When he was coated in the blood of a dozen men, he lay down. His vengeance was had. His purpose as a father was unfulfilled and could never be done now. His purpose as a defender of his village was done. He had nothing now, until the bandits came again. His village was burned, his fellows slaughtered and he left in shame while they were busy killing everyone else. He found Renart on the roads shortly after the other man's retirement from the legion. He followed Renart, appointing himself as his bodyguard, and the two  roamed. He would kill the highwaymen who tried to rob them of their goods once in a while, a simple life. When they came to Kvatch, his simple life became anything but.

Spells:
None

Inventory:
Cash: 17 septims

Keys and Lockpicks: None

Tools and Crafting Materials: A whittling knife

Clothing and Armor: He wears a padded-cloth vest over a cloth shirt, baggy trousers bloused into leg-wraps and ankle boots. A brown cloak and a red phrygian cap.

Weapon and Ammunition: A hand-axe, kept looped on his belt opposite of a large knife with a six inch blade. A small collection of six knives hidden about his person.

Potion and Arcane Supplies: None

Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: His wedding ring, a pressed flower he received those years ago from his daughter. A half-finished carving of a wolf's head.

Books and Documents: None

Food, Drinks and Ingredients: 
On horse: A bundle of cured sausages as well as a heel of bread.

Load Bearing Equipment: His horse
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