82nd Winter, 515AV
Brok Smithen was a man who carried a lifetime of bitterness and resentment along with him everyday, pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy piece of ornamental armour. Just by looking at his scarred face, which was almost permanently twisted into a grimace of sorts, one could surmise that he was not a fellow to catch on a bad day. On one such a bad day, he may well take pleasure in killing a man, woman or child, no questions asked.
Those who knew Brok would describe him as a man stuck in the past, with so many regrets that he had failed to develop a life in the present. He spoke about the dead like they were still alive, even those who had been rotting underfoot for many years.
And the man held a grudge as closely to his chest as other men chose to hold their wife or favoured whore. In his younger days, Brok had put all of his faith into Robern Dalagnar, serving the man as loyally as was possible for a mortal to do. He killed for Rotter, he saved for Rotter. And when the Daggerhands grew in their strength and power, Brok was one of Robern’s many right-hand men. Whereas others saw Brok as nothing more than a simpleton with a sword, and thus someone to drastically underestimate, Robern claimed to see the man’s inner worth and inner strength, buzz words that appealed to Brok’s basic understanding and the otherwise lack of appreciation in his life. Of course, Robern was toying with him, and when it all came falling and burning down, Brok was left with nothing. The surviving Daggerhands wanted nothing to do with him, and without his master, he was one lost little pup.
But Brok was a man with a fierce bite, and he resented his dead master for all those promises of riches and power. His own foolishness for believing Robern’s lies seemed to evade his attention and anger, and Brok’s obsessive hatred with all things Daggerhand swelled and grew over the next decade. Soon enough, it became common knowledge to avoid the mercenary who had once dreamed of being Sunberth’s prince.
He was an intimidating man, and not just because of his imposing strength. But though he was tall and broad, his age was beginning to catch up with him, and his skin was was sagging, his belly starting to go soft. But even with these whispers age, his impressive build alone did not capture his dangerousness: there was something unpredictable about the experienced sell sword. He appeared to be constantly agitated or angrily nervous, in the same way that abused dogs sometimes were. Mothers ushered their children away from him in the streets, and he could empty a tavern just about as quickly as a foul smell could. All in all, people observed him from a distance, elbowing each other and stepping out of his way.
And so, when Brok advertised his requirement of assistance in some mysterious, unnamed task, few people had answered. So few, in fact, that he hadn’t even bothered to interview or test their abilities. The merc had instead, simply instructed those who were interested in earning a wage for a nights work should meet him in the outskirts the Rotting Mansion, of all places. The once formidable home of Robern Dalagnar was now nothing but a blackened corpse of a building, but the ghosts of what had happened here still haunted and distressed Brok, who was currently pacing angrily back and forth.
”Is this it, then?” He demanded angrily of the two other people who stood anxiously to the side. The female of the two put a hand to her dirty blonde hair and shrugged in her reply. Her hand dropped from her head, fingering instead the rapier hilt that hung to her hip.
”Maybe.” She concluded vaguely, giving a strained look to the young fellow standing beside her. Both of the volunteers looked remorseful over their decision to accept this bizarre invitation. After licking her lips, she enquired cautiously, ”What exactly will we be doin’?
Brok ignored the question, and spat violently onto the pavement. ”Bloody ridiculous. Yer both look ‘bout twelve. Do ye even know ‘ow to ‘old a sword?” He paused to critically scrutinise the young male who, in fairness, did have an interesting hair style. The sides of his head were shaved, and the hair on top had been braided and pinned to his skull.
”There’s someone else coming.” The blonde woman said, her voice heavy with relief. Brok turned sharply away and then spread his arms wide. ”Another babysitter!” He called out to the approaching male as if the two were old friends. Behind him, the male and female shared a concerned look. ”M’names Brok Smithen. This pair are—”
“Erin.”
“R-Rod. Keegan. Rod Keegan.”
Brok seemed as unimpressed with Rod’s introduction as he had done with the male’s hair. Pucking his lips, he turned towards the Rotting Mansion and suggested, ”well, let’s go in then, shall we?”
Age: 48
Gender: Male
Skills: Weapon: Broadsword, 52
Intimidation, 38
Leadership, 30
Brawling, 24
Name:
Age: 32
Gender: Female
Skills: Weapon: Rapier, 37
Unarmed Combat, 27
Stealth, 25
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Skills: Weapon: Dagger, 48
Tactics, 32
Dual wield, 27
Those who knew Brok would describe him as a man stuck in the past, with so many regrets that he had failed to develop a life in the present. He spoke about the dead like they were still alive, even those who had been rotting underfoot for many years.
And the man held a grudge as closely to his chest as other men chose to hold their wife or favoured whore. In his younger days, Brok had put all of his faith into Robern Dalagnar, serving the man as loyally as was possible for a mortal to do. He killed for Rotter, he saved for Rotter. And when the Daggerhands grew in their strength and power, Brok was one of Robern’s many right-hand men. Whereas others saw Brok as nothing more than a simpleton with a sword, and thus someone to drastically underestimate, Robern claimed to see the man’s inner worth and inner strength, buzz words that appealed to Brok’s basic understanding and the otherwise lack of appreciation in his life. Of course, Robern was toying with him, and when it all came falling and burning down, Brok was left with nothing. The surviving Daggerhands wanted nothing to do with him, and without his master, he was one lost little pup.
But Brok was a man with a fierce bite, and he resented his dead master for all those promises of riches and power. His own foolishness for believing Robern’s lies seemed to evade his attention and anger, and Brok’s obsessive hatred with all things Daggerhand swelled and grew over the next decade. Soon enough, it became common knowledge to avoid the mercenary who had once dreamed of being Sunberth’s prince.
He was an intimidating man, and not just because of his imposing strength. But though he was tall and broad, his age was beginning to catch up with him, and his skin was was sagging, his belly starting to go soft. But even with these whispers age, his impressive build alone did not capture his dangerousness: there was something unpredictable about the experienced sell sword. He appeared to be constantly agitated or angrily nervous, in the same way that abused dogs sometimes were. Mothers ushered their children away from him in the streets, and he could empty a tavern just about as quickly as a foul smell could. All in all, people observed him from a distance, elbowing each other and stepping out of his way.
And so, when Brok advertised his requirement of assistance in some mysterious, unnamed task, few people had answered. So few, in fact, that he hadn’t even bothered to interview or test their abilities. The merc had instead, simply instructed those who were interested in earning a wage for a nights work should meet him in the outskirts the Rotting Mansion, of all places. The once formidable home of Robern Dalagnar was now nothing but a blackened corpse of a building, but the ghosts of what had happened here still haunted and distressed Brok, who was currently pacing angrily back and forth.
”Is this it, then?” He demanded angrily of the two other people who stood anxiously to the side. The female of the two put a hand to her dirty blonde hair and shrugged in her reply. Her hand dropped from her head, fingering instead the rapier hilt that hung to her hip.
”Maybe.” She concluded vaguely, giving a strained look to the young fellow standing beside her. Both of the volunteers looked remorseful over their decision to accept this bizarre invitation. After licking her lips, she enquired cautiously, ”What exactly will we be doin’?
Brok ignored the question, and spat violently onto the pavement. ”Bloody ridiculous. Yer both look ‘bout twelve. Do ye even know ‘ow to ‘old a sword?” He paused to critically scrutinise the young male who, in fairness, did have an interesting hair style. The sides of his head were shaved, and the hair on top had been braided and pinned to his skull.
”There’s someone else coming.” The blonde woman said, her voice heavy with relief. Brok turned sharply away and then spread his arms wide. ”Another babysitter!” He called out to the approaching male as if the two were old friends. Behind him, the male and female shared a concerned look. ”M’names Brok Smithen. This pair are—”
“Erin.”
“R-Rod. Keegan. Rod Keegan.”
Brok seemed as unimpressed with Rod’s introduction as he had done with the male’s hair. Pucking his lips, he turned towards the Rotting Mansion and suggested, ”well, let’s go in then, shall we?”
Brok Smithen
Age: 48
Gender: Male
Skills: Weapon: Broadsword, 52
Intimidation, 38
Leadership, 30
Brawling, 24
Erin Montsoya
Age: 32
Gender: Female
Skills: Weapon: Rapier, 37
Unarmed Combat, 27
Stealth, 25
Rod Keegan
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Skills: Weapon: Dagger, 48
Tactics, 32
Dual wield, 27
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