Character Backstory (Optional):
There are few who achieve the height of nobility from the grounds of mud and decay, from the very bottom of the surface, living amongst insects and rodents. Ser Reynard was of no renown from his birth, he was not born of nobility, no significance was found when he first laid eyes upon the world, merely another to tend the fief, another mouth to feed in an already impoverished household. He was born of three brothers, a father, and a mother, holders of the Mill for a local town residing within the domain of the House Conrad. The life of such simplicity was never one so easy lived, the lands became more brutal with every passing day, this much was known by all. His father, the Miller, was known to dabble in a side business, not unlike a majority toiling in such a field, who found themselves typically drawn to the illegal and disloyal in order to supply for their families. Thievery and counterfeiting in the form of coach robbing and the selling of these relinquished goods were what was chosen, or placed, upon his father. In the daylight, the hours of the Mill worked ordinarily, farmers visited and grain was processed, when night came so did other, more unpleasant, figures. The Father stashed these stolen items behind the building, a hole dug in the ground fitting a shallow grave, holding gold bathed in blood. It was a schedule, the rest of the family learned to turn their backs on the killings and robbery that no doubt unintentionally carried on with their father's wishes. All but him, the youngest son.
Reynard was no stranger to death, he had witnessed his first by the age of five, in the form of a public execution by hanging within the center of the town. It only became more and more present with him while time passed on, his father's dirty work soon had spread to the young mind, by only his fifteenth age had he been following them out on the unsavory tasks that had been chosen by whatever robber baron or brigand had ran the operation. It initially was merely carrying the weight of stolen food, supplies, even trinkets and gold that had been taken to then be hidden and later sold. Soon enough, he was then offered a blade, a small and meek one fitted in his palm and carried to the dirt roads in the forests that surrounded the village. His father detested it, but the more contribution that was made, the more payment they had received, and so this questioning and concern had quickly faded. He was trained from these youthful years to wield his blade by one of these brigands, taught how to properly swing without losing a finger, where to aim to inflict the most pain. It was simple, but enough to deal with the untrained guards following any of the caravans, or so they had thought. In truth, it had mattered little by the end, there was only one fate that was befitting of such a life. It was never going to end well.
It came in the midst of a successful robbery, one where blood was shed by the weakened peasantry that had held up arms in defiance, the group was looting from the corpses and back of the wagon they had assaulted, only for a pause to break the silence, the sound of galloping on an empty road. Lances, spears, blades dug into the backs and chests of each of the brigands, pierced by a cavalryman no doubt sent from the local garrisons to clear the roads. In the end, it was only he that had remained. Five corpses lay beside him, one including his father, who he did not dare look upon in such a state. He knew not why he survived, but in his young mind in all of its naivety, thought it to be an intervention of fate itself. In reality, it was likely that the militia that had dealt this killing blow took pity on the child, leaving them to their wounds rather than in a ditch on the road like the rest. He returned to the Mill alone, delivering the news to the rest of the family.
Shock and mourning passed quickly, income became the primary most concern. The eldest brother took up the mantle of the miller, while the rest were to aid him. This however only lasted a few years, and the payment that was gained was never enough to supply them for long. A sickness passed through the town, killing off both the mother and eldest son, leaving only the middle and youngest brothers. They had survived, though were not to live together. The middle son fled the Mill, and was never heard from again by Reynard, who was abandoned, left to grow alone. And so to, without any other options, did he come to leave the home to rot, discarding his previous name and taking up a new one, leaving his own history, all his ancestors and blood behind, leaving left of his past but an unbroken link somewhere in the corners of the land. Reynard Lambert was the adopted name, holding no past, no accomplishments, nothing but a blade sheathed on his hip.
In the coming days, he traveled to a nearby city, where he was taken in by a local mercenary company in service of the House Conrad. A peasant with no purpose and the decent knowledge of a blade was a rare enough sight, and numbers were needed in the next campaign. He was properly trained, in time he fought battles many of which were against the very people he once dwelled alongside, a purpose was finally found in the way of the blade, in the death and destruction he had known, in the violence and bloodshed. Above all, in the profit that was to be gained from it. His prowess showed true, in only a few years was he given a proper title, a horse to ride with the cavalry, and a lance to skewer an opponent. His name was yet to be known, but it was one he was prideful of.
In recent years, a tournament hit a local city that the company was garrisoned within. On break in a tavern he heard of the opportunity to participate in a duel, the promise of battling against the very Champion of the Axe himself. He had not known the name, only the title, and that was enough. He was older than him, pale beneath a suit of plated armor, while he was dirtied and battered, draped in only a mail hauberk. He entered the contest, a duel begun with the triumphant echoing of trumpets, both figures approached each other steadily. The blade of the Champion was thrusted out, only to be caught by his own. He wrapped his gloves along the edge of his own blade, halfswording it while the pommel was then rammed back, bashing against the visor of the Champion. He stumbled, winded. A toothy grin was made by Reynard, only to be caught off guard by an incoming swing to his shoulder. The blade slid on the mail, though the impact was heavy, he thought his arm dislocated, and was left defenseless against an incoming charge by the Champion, who rammed him to the dirt. Blows were knocked against his jaw, teeth spat out, blood seeping from his lips. He flipped the grip, both rolling on the ground, an elbow rammed to the neck, while a dagger was unsheathed. The Champion did the same, mustering through the pain, but unprepared for the brutality that he was facing. The dagger plunged into his side, the tip tasting flesh, but he had aimed more vital. The blade was dug into the neck of the Champion, twisted, blood was spat into the visor. The bodies hold went limp. He had won.
For his efforts and prowess, Conrad himself had named him the new Champion of the Axe from a mere man at arms. Service and loyalty was a new concept for him, but it was a promising proposition, one only a fool will neglect. He hardly even spent the time to offer his farewells to his former allies in the company, to the manors of the capitol he rode. An outcast in the lines of nobility, those who had earned a position through birthright, his had been gained in blood. While he is older now, more experienced, those days of his youth had never left him. Always a creeping burden, a weight pressed on the back of his mind. A past that was left a stain on his very name, his position, and a brother who still yet lives, with the potential to spoil all he has gained.
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