Gottfried Alfbrand

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Gottfried Alfbrand
Topic Started: Aug 6 2009, 12:09 AM (60 Views)
Carius	Aug 6 2009, 12:09 AM Post #1
Member Posts: 28 Group: Members Member #54 Joined: March 2, 2008	Name: Gottfried Alfbrand Age: 50 Race: Human Gender: Male Physcial Description: Accessories: -Paired long and short swords -Heavy brown cloak -His trademark brimmed brown hat Powers: “And he was called The Two Fangs” – True to his title, Gottfried’s years of experience in battle have earned him a brutal effectiveness in combat. His martial prowess, especially when wielding two weapons, approaches the magical in some of the more exaggerated tales. The skeptical can safely assume he is an expert in the use of his paired blades, and is at least proficient with many other weapons due to his years of battle. “A beast of stern brow and iron will” – Granted, he is aging, but Gottfried is still a rough-and-tumble individual. His body has seen years of combat, and he has developed a high tolerance for pain, as well as a tough stomach for ill sights. Strong willpower carries him against some of his growing infirmities. Personality: Gottfried is a rough and worn individual. He enjoys drink, song, and story. At times he may alternate between merriment and downright brusque temper. He is at best a spirited, story-swapping, rude (and sometimes lewd) drinking partner, and at worst a stern and ill-tempered old bear. He is rather open about certain details of his checkered past, and others he is markedly tight-lipped on. This old soldier is a conflicted one. At times he is a brutal realist and cynic who will not hesitate to be opportunistic if it means scraping by with his life. The constant pain in his side is the honor-bound life he formerly lead while he still served his own nation, and at times he feels compelled to approach a situation with some trappings of honesty and fair contest. These entirely hypocritical stances in opposition to one another make him unpredictable in many circumstances. Gottfried wouldn’t have it any other way. Profession Sellsword History: Sir Alfbrand was once considered the heroic warrior of a tiny islet nation whose name is now forgotten. This belligerent nation’s warlike culture led it to raid weaker settlements with impunity, until the military of Deist attempted to annex the small power and prevent the raiders from hassling their merchant ports. Alfbrand fought valiantly against the more powerful nation of Deist, but began to despair as he faced a force of incredible numbers. Late in the conflict, a scandal arose when he and his men accepted a contract to sell the swords to another nation, one that wasn’t involved in the war, and left to serve in greener pastures. His home was quickly crushed. Now in the employ of many different nations, Alfbrand sometimes helped to track down the hardier members of his former home and kill them. His rude manners and strange accent were at least tolerated when he, time and again, returned with the heads of contracted kills. When Alfbrand was finished with his work, he simply walked out, refusing to accept a fief from any Lord. Strange as it was to walk out landless and with only limited funds, Alfbrand had been struck with wanderlust, and perhaps something akin to a painful twinge of guilt. The sellsword, once possessing minor fame for his honed skills, is getting on in years. Though he has faded into the background, the mention of his name is still enough to spark interest in the right circles. “Alfbrand of Two Fangs” or “The Fell Gottfried” is the subject of songs that still occasionally are played in the corner of a smoky tavern. Though he has only a handful of years left before age lays him low, rumor has it that Gottfried’s contract has turned back up, free for grabs to anyone who knows where to look and has the coin to pay his fees. Gottfried isn’t what he used to be, but he is still a hardened veteran, and his instinct and skill would be ignored at great peril. Roleplay Sample: “He’s the one,” came the voice, creeping warily out of the youngblood’s mouth. His thin companion, as pale as their old companion was ruddy with rage, bared his teeth in a yellowed gleam. “There’s quite the price,” he continued, passing over the smiling cutthroat with disregard. His eyes set upon their old compatriot, who looked ready to burst a vessel. “But I wouldn’t act just yet. Would we, Waltz?” “No,” growled the old man, after a momentary hesitation. “The Two Fangs are treacherous. I will be patient.” “Good.” The pale lad sighed with impatience, and began to idly pick his fingernails with his glinting dagger. The young bounty hunter promptly brushed back his curly hair, leaned forward, and grabbed hold of his wrist. “Not here,” he said, struggling against his sallow friend’s quiet protests. At the other end of theroom, Gottfried grumbled a request to the barkeep. Peering down at the mug passed to him, he finally decided to drink. He lifted it up to his face, taking an eager gulp, his bristly face dipped in the generous foaming head. “Drawn blades are unnecessary and will only—“ The hunter suddenly stopped when he saw the growing smirk on the thin one’s face, and noted the grim sort of look Waltz’s features had frozen into. He pressed his friend’s hand, dagger and all, back towards him with a look that said “hide it now!” “He’s dead already,” Waltz said, looking all the more disdainful that this wasn’t an outright conflict. He sighed, reaching for his own glass. A loud crack shook the windows. Gottfried stood up, quietly. The barkeep slumped against the back wall where his broken skull emptied into a red splatter. “Shit,” muttered one of the men nearby, turning away quickly. A couple others took it upon themselves to stand, drawing steel. Gottfried responded by spitting the ale gathered in his mouth on the nearest one, in a fine spray. He planted his boot heel in the man’s chest, knocking him backwards across a table. Chaos broke out. The thin fellow cut and ran for it. His enemy had figured out they’d tipped off the barkeep. He froze, suddenly, as above the clamor, he heard old Gottfried’s stern, resonant voice call out. “WAAAAAALTZ!” The thin one took another few steps towards the door, and was suddenly knocked aside by the bouncer, who dove into the fray pell-mell. He hesitated, turning again. He grew even more impossibly pale as he saw Waltz sprawled in the chair, a shortsword embedded in his chest. The young bounty hunter stood nearby, shaking. “Run! Damn it, run!” “He found us out,” the youngblood said, almost in disbelief. “Why’d you two have to—“ The thin man threw himself forward, trying to help his friend. Gottfried broke through the crowd, knocking another flat and stepping over the limp form in a quick stride. “You two helped pay that bastard to poison my drink, hrm?” It was as if a great bear had them cornered, and was waiting for the proper moment to lop their heads off. One rough paw of a hand gripped the handle of a longsword, brandished to threateningly pin them up in their corner. “Corner table is the worst place for conspiracy. No way out.” The young bounty hunter made some mumbling attempt at conciliation. “There’s honesty in your eyes, even if you’re a damnned coward.” The thin one let himself breathe a little, seeing his youngblooded friend seemingly let off. However, his breath caught the moment the sword was shifted to bear on him. “This was your idea, and you convinced old Waltz into it. You’re a snake.” The thin lad could barely utter a plea for help, his hands scrambling for a dagger, before Gottfried ran him through. Roughly pushing the body off his sword, the old warrior scowled, brushing ale out of his beard. He removed the short sword from Waltz’s chest, and turning abruptly he fiercely parried an errant blade, sending the attacker off balance. A pommel to the back of the head sent him sharply to the ground. The crowd was already beginning to disperse, and this seemed the last hurrah. The bouncers already seemed to have some idea of what was going on, and didn’t touch him. “Find better companions, or a better line of work,” he said, to the bewildered young bounty hunter. “Or other bounty heads. I’m attached to mine.” Wiping the blood from his sword, Gottfried made for the door, taking his hat off the hook. Mere moments later, he was gone, with only the rustle of a coarse cloak. Combat Leveling:(Level 8) Physical: 3 Melee: 5 Missile: 0 Magic: 0 Referred by: Gwendolyn, originally...that was some time ago



Tanathos	Aug 10 2009, 06:32 PM Post #2
Advanced Member Posts: 667 Group: Admin Member #3 Joined: February 17, 2007	APPROVED! Welcome back, man!



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