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You are a mercenary, a soldier-of-fortune. You are still green to the trade, with nothing yet but the clothes on your back and a wooden spear you carved yourself from a tent pole, but you dream of one day leading your own company, perhaps even ruling over a fortress or a fief as the Barons do.
The realm, however, is presently quiet. The last real war was between the Empire and the men of the Highlands--which the Emperor managed to bring to an uneasy truce by a royal marriage. The last crusade against the Sultan of the South was many years ago. Here in Myr, the work is often of a smaller scale: baronial disputes, where the peasants bear the burnt of the punishment, their cattle and pigs and chickens stolen by the enemy or slaughtered for the Baron's men, their precious wheat trampled upon, and their daughters left with bastards in their bellies. But thus has it always been.
Even so, most peasants would not dare to take up arms. Peasants are docile folk, resigned to their destinies as much as the lowing cattle they tend. They can be led to slaughter easily enough, but to lead it themselves is another matter. Thus, too, it has always been.
At any rate, you managed to get yourself into a small mercenary company called The Red Ravens. Though they boast no more than two dozen men, each has seen the battlefield at least once, and you were nearly rejected for your inexperience. It was the sergeant who finally vouched for you, on account of your...
>Unerring memory, you never forget a face, or a place, or a speech, or anything really.
>Sheer endurance, cold, heat, fatigue, hunger, pain, nothing can move you once your purpose is set
>Hulking strength, you've always been bigger and stronger than most folk, able to do alone what two men would find difficult.
>Write-in
