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Name: Rickard Riordan
A lanky man, dark of hair and eye, well-muscled under his cloak, and competent with the bow that is always at his side, and with the short blade that is never far from it. More often than not, he is mounted, and the horse beneath him his sole companion. The ferret in his saddlebag is not a companion; it is an interloper, and a rude one.
He could have been a family man. There was even a girl, once upon a time. A lot of stories start that way, but not many of them end like that. He might have loved her, if he hadn't loved the forest. The forest was always first, though, and so when she put on her summer dress, he put on his cloak, and was away. When he returned, she loved another, and they were both happier for the outcome. Rickard is in disgruntled possession of several siblings and a host of nieces and nephews, whom he tolerates when he is in their homes, ignores when he is in the town, and thinks fondly of when he is far away.
He is able with a bow. Too able, some say. Some have claimed witchcraft, but Rickard states that is nothing more than jealousy: his skills are from training and temper, and above all the need to rely solely on himself at all times. With his short sword he is capable as well, though he regards this more as a weapon for dispatching a foe already half-slain, than the means of slaughter itself. He knows the skills of making, and of mending; of tending camp and breaking it; of land and wind and river and stars. Forest lore he knows well - plants, herbs, creatures. All these things, he knows more of than he knows of mankind. Men, he says, are creatures - but they are not kind.
- Posts: 4066
- Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 6:40 am
- Gender: Female
- Location: Somewhere grey and full of ghosts.
Swollen with a mantra that I've stolen from a thief.
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