Cleombrotus

Cleombrotus - Initiate of Argan Argar and Orlanth

Cleombrotus was born in the Dara Happan city of Raibanth, the son of an urban thief. His father was captured and crucified, and the young Cleombrotus was offered enlistment in the Lunar army, or enlistment in the punishment battalions of the Danfive Xaron cult. He opted for the army and was inducted into the ranks of the Beryl Phalanx in the years prior to its deployment in the south. He campaigned throughout the Empire  and northern Sartar until he became involved in the insurrection known as Starbrow's Rebellion, where his company of the Beryl Phalanx was all but annihilated at the battle of Hofstaring's Flood. He was one of a mere handful of survivors who managed to evade the pursuing Telmori and make it to safety. Playing dead, he enlisted in the reserve mercenary forces that were a part of Fazzur Wideread's army which suppressed the uprising. When these were disbanded in the wake of the siege of Jonstown, he began the journey northward, back to Tarsh where he could begin a new life, but Fate intervened...

It is difficult to explain what it is that makes us do these things. I have acquired no luxuries in my time, and such treasures as have come into my possession have been artefacts which make the job I do a little easier. They offer no way out of the life.

I have endured the awestruck stares of children and the jealous and disapproving scowls of adults, and have maybe earned the respect of a few of my peers, but this life is not one of material glory. If you want opulence, then look somewhere else. If pain does not appeal to you in some way, then seek life elsewhere.

You will never know the feeling of mute, enclosed terror when you lower your helm over your face. The world vanishes but for a narrow gorge enclosed on each side by walls of bronze, and you hear and see nought but the thumping course of your blood as it deafens you, and the dust and the shadows as they fill your tiny field of vision: and such vision as you do have is filled with kaleidoscopic flashes of hate and fear, written in the faces of the dead and the soon to be.

Your sense of physical self is heightened beyond rapture: the heat under your armour, the sweat that pools and trickles down your body and stings your eyes with its salt kiss. Your lungs heave mighty and painful breaths which do not sate their lust for air, and your muscles cry for surcease and you steel youself and deny them.

The feel of the grain of the haft of your spear, and the hellish weight of your shield as it pulls against your arm, trying always to fall and leave you open. The leather soles of your sandaled feet as they scrape through the dust to find purchase against an enemy's charge, and you live the dull ecstasy of planting your spear in the body of your foe, seeing the sudden look of terror on their face that tells you that you yourself will live: this time.

This is the life of the adventurer, and it haunts my nights. Many is the time that I have burst from sleep to wake still feeling the thrust of my enemy's blade or claw piercing me in my dreams as it so nearly did in the real world.

These close calls are the stuff of legend, but legends do not tell of sleepless heroes.

Cleombrotus on...

Darkos

Darkos is a firm friend and one I trust. Between the whole group we have a diverse skill base, and with his archery and cavalry skills, Darkos gives us an element of manoeuvrability and firepower that we have come to depend upon. He carries the natural urge to lead that I have come to expect from nobility, but he carries it well – he will make a decision even if it is the wrong one, but that serves us better than arguments. As a leader he has one flaw – a sometimes lackadaisical approach that appears at random. If he is feeling apathetic, and I can begin to recognise the signs, he is likely to make whimsical or even negligent decisions with little or no attention to detail. I’m sure that Kirwin will never forget and probably never quite forgive Darkos his negligence when choosing a campsite after our encounter with the broos. This makes Darkos difficult to entirely place your trust in. I am also wary of his cult affiliation which seems out of character with his noble birth. However, I name Darkos friend.

Grant

Grant is a kinsman of the spear. There are no others that I have met that I would sooner call ally and compatriot, and entering a fight with Grant at your side is to know that you can commit yourself fully to the battle and have your flank protected. For this reason Grant and I make a good team. Grant’s knowledge of healing, as well as the amazing magic crystal he gained from the Dragon mean that we can fight boldly and aggressively and be assured of healing in the aftermath. This has contributed immeasurably to our success. He is content to follow the lead of others, perhaps overly so, and his quiet demeanour that holds so much respect could carry much weight in an argument if he would only put himself forward. We have shared much, and I trust Grant with my life.

Kirwin

Kirwin is an honourable man, and whether in accord or in conflict, he will speak his mind and I respect him for that. His opinions have led to conflict between us, but he is never underhand, and if he has a problem with my actions or attitudes, then he will say so. This is good. However, the fact remains that we are often at odds, and he has even threatened my life on one occasion. It would be tragedy given our mutual experiences, but should the conflict spill over, then I will not shy away. He is a magically powerful warrior, and when the circumstances favour him he is an awesome foe, but I am much quicker than he, and my spear has a longer reach than his sword. He would not win a fair fight.