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 Post subject: Ansol Gierhardt, Veteran Fighter
PostPosted: Tue Nov 29, 2011 6:17 pm 
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No secrets for me in MW
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Joined: Tue Dec 05, 2006 6:22 am
Posts: 554
Location: Kentucky
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Name: Ansol Gierhardt
Class: Fighter
Race: Human
Alignment: Good
Inventory: Leather Armor (Full), Mace, Wooden Shield (Small)
Gold: -1
Pet: N/A
Specials/Spells List: Hammerblow, Intercept, Brace
Skills List: Hardened, Expertise (Shield), Expertise (Mace)

Biography:

Perfect.

That was the only word he could think of to describe the feeling of tending to his equipment. The smell of lapping powder and the sandalwood oils used to care for his armor filled the small enclosure, the familiarity of it almost maternally comforting. The feel of the cloth running over the leather, the gentle creaking as the tough material gave way to the treatment, everything about this act was honed into him, a ritual performed time and time again. The light outside his small cell was dimming, the onset of twilight coming on more rapidly in these harsh winter months.

A hand, almost the same texture as the leather it cleaned – and crisscrossed with a small gallery of scars, reached over the leather bracers and bottles of oils to grasp a thick white candle. The walls played with the sound of the flint striking steel and softened it, soon being lit with flickering light as the sparks took hold on the charred wick. The smell of powders, oils, and metal were soon mellowed by the tinge of the candle's burning – not an alien sensation to the man sitting by the table covered with various forms of armour.

In fact, it was almost as comforting as the smell of the treated leather metal alone, again a ritual performed many times before, in happy times and troubling alike. A small smile lit upon the man's lips, covered by a small scruff of a rounded beard. The scarred hands began their dance along the well-worn leather again, soaking the toughened material with just enough oil to soften it and prevent it from becoming rigid.

His face was impassive, almost blank with the lack of thought his work required him – years upon years of diligent care had instilled an instinctive sense of what his equipment needed, and in what amounts. His deep brown eyes were unfocused, obviously elsewhere in his mind. The light played off the sheen of sweat on his shaven head, the stubble of new growth only barely perceptible. Though one would hardly notice with the vast number of small scars that adorned his scalp, a tangled map of years of battle.

His patrician cast was marred by such imperfections all along his face, crowned by a nose broken one too many times. The smile wasn't made hard by these signs of turmoil, however, and the benevolent gleam in his eyes and manner were at odds with the obvious violence he has seen. A man born into battle, but not born for it, a fact made obvious by the amulet around his neck bearing the intertwined Rose and Sword of Carmelia, one of the forgotten gods – Benevolence personified.

A sound at the door made the hands stop their ceaseless ministrations, and instead casually drift towards his mace. Grasping the worn leather handle, he hefted the weapon easily. Years of experience with this mace had made it more than a weapon – it had become like an extension of his own arm. He knew the weight well, and could maneuver the weapon even here in the small space.

The chair creaked as he rose from it, the light casting his shadow against the far wall like some fell phantasm from a nightmare past. He reached out to the door, laying his hand on the latch, but stopped there.

“Who is it?” He intoned, his deep voice carried through the door – sounding less than happy about the intrusion, but concealing the tension he could feel building up within his core. For many moments, no one answered, and as he readied his mace to defend against a blow and began to open the door, the person answered;

“Lidda, sir. I've come with news of the people you were asking about,” Her voice rose a notch, and the sound of crashing crockery rose from behind the thick door. He opened it quickly, mace held across his chest, ready to deflect a blow. The mace fell slowly as he beheld the scene – Lidda, a girl scarcely out of her teens kneeling down and frantically wiping up the spilled contents of the earthenware cup she had been carrying (spiced wine, by the color and the smell – and he smiled and knelt to help her.

“You know, the news could have waited until the morning Lidda,” He said, smiling, “I'm not that eager to go traipsing off into the dark of the night after a simple caravan.” Her pale face flushed red, blush rising from her neck up. She spluttered a few words, and was finally silent. As he picked up the shattered pieces of crockery for her – his leathery hands in no more danger from being cut than a rock – he thought about the people he was looking for.

Nisyrus was a sorcerer, not so much a student of magic than a living conduit for it. He was elusive, traveling as a refugee in a time when such were as common as the blades of grass underfoot. His one mistake was insisting on helping the other refugees with their various ailments and dilemmas. An alchemist he was not, but he had a warrior's knowledge of herbs and poultices – enough so that anyone who had met him was ill-at-ease to disclose where he had gone to someone rough looking.

Illia and Mirra were warriors like himself, trained to fight to the last and die on their feet. They were not so hard to follow – A missing eye and scarred features like that were hard to miss on women – but the fact remained that they traveled with Nisyrus, which meant that few were willing to give up little more than the fact that they had helped them.

When he looked up again, Lidda was staring at him. Her mouth was almost imperceptibly open, and a brief look of concern flashed across her face. Her voice finally registered as he dropped out of his introspection fully.

“...ight, sir?”

He shook his head lightly, and smiled. “I'm sorry, Lidda, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were alright, sir,” The look of concern returned, and she looked over him in an appraising sort of manner, “You... Well...” She trailed off.

“Don't worry, just lost in my head,” He returned, and smiled, “And please Lidda, don't call me sir. I'm most definitely not in command, and I'm not quite that old.” The smile faded, but the soft, brotherly tone never left his voice.

She blushed again, and after a moment, “Yes Sir Gierhardt.” It dawned on her that she had done it again, and after silently berating herself, “Yes, Ansol.”Lidda reached out and took the small pile of pottery from him and placed the shards in a makeshift basket made by her apron. “I'll come and wake you in the morning and give you the information, Ansol.” She turned on her heel, and began to walk off.

She stopped, however, and looked back at him. More to the point, however, at the worn mace at his side. “Thank you for your concern...” She trailed off again, her cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red, and left the hall.

------0------


Physical Description:
--Height: 6'2
--Weight: 225 lbs.
--Eyes: Brown
--Hair: Blonde
--Skin: Tanned
--Special Markings: Scars (Hands, Arms, Neck, Head)
--Special Traits: Charmelian Amulet & Brand bearing same symbol on chest.
--Dress: White undershirt (Worn, but not ragged.) Brown trousers (Stained with rust from various armor buckles)

Specials Description:

Hammerblow: [W]

In battle, he who dares, wins. Ansol has been privy to this many times, having fought in many of the battles that seem to crop up between minor lords and merchants. The concept works in strategy, but also in a stand-up fight - meaning that one overpowering blow, one gamble, can mean a win or a loss. Ansol takes this approach to heart, and in homage of this, has taught himself several techniques to bring his mace down with enough force to crumple some of the thickest armor out there.

The downside? Such force is almost universally unbalancing, and tiring to boot.

3x Per Battle
1x Per Page
[Weak]

Intercept: [W]

Battle with a weapon and shield is about offense without sacrificing defense. Ansol has learned that to further reduce the sacrifice of defense, one must become almost preternaturally proficient in quick defense. Intercept is the culmination of a great deal of training and focus, and allows Ansol to increase the speed of his shield-arm in order to try and block even the quickest of attacks. Shield size plays a factor in just how fast.

(As a note, while it may not allow him to completely block the quick attacks or heavy attacks of some classes, it should – most of the time – at least help in deflecting the blow.)

[Medium/Heavy Shields: Light Boost]
[Small/Buckler: Medium Boost]

2x Per Battle
1x Per page
[Weak]

Brace: [M]

Sometimes, it pays to hold your ground. When all else fails and you absolutely must stand and fight against something much larger than yourself. Ansol has learned this lesson well, and knows just how to brace against an overwhelming force. He braces himself and readies his weapon and shield for an assault. Ansol becomes a tower of solidarity, aware of his surroundings and enemies and braced against the strongest of blows. His blocking speed increases universally, as well as his resistance to any kind of tripping/knockdown effects.

[Medium Increase to Block Speed]
[Heavy Increase to Knockdown/Stagger Resistance]
[Taking a Move Action (Moving as in repositioning and tumbling) in any post during duration cancels effect]

Lasts 3 Posts
2x Per Battle
1x Per Page
[Medium]

Skills Description:

Hardened: [M]

Survival is paramount to any fighter, and not necessarily for life's sake itself. Ansol has learned much over the course of his battles, as his map of scars and old wounds attest, and has become a hardened veteran. His knowledge of battle, ability to read an opponent, and resistance to pain and fatigue are almost unimaginable. On that note, however, he cannot survive the unsurvivable (Incineration, Decapitation, Disintegration), but he can ignore pain and fatigue most men would balk at.

[Light Stamina Boost]
[Light Pain Resistance Boost]

[Medium]

Expertise - Mace: [W]

Ansol has wielded the same mace for almost the entirety of his career. He intimately knows every detail about the weapon, from the nick it received during the Temple Falls Siege to the extra weight added by the addition of the small counterweight on the pommel of it. Very rarely does he make a mistake with his weapon, and his intuition about it's condition borders on obsessive.

[Weak]

Expertise - Shield: [W]

Long training on the fields of practice and battle have afforded Ansol with an almost preternatural instinct in the use of his shield. Coupled with the long years of battle, this instinct allows him better control over even the most unwieldy of shields, and a unique insight into the shield's condition.

[Weak]

Custom Inventory:

--------------------------------

--Battle Records--

Wins:
Ties:
Losses:

Battle Listing:

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Last edited by Nevercroft on Fri Dec 23, 2011 7:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Ansol Gierhardt, Veteran Fighter
PostPosted: Sat Dec 03, 2011 2:37 am 
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Can't wait for MWO
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Joined: Sat Feb 17, 2007 1:41 am
Posts: 3656
Location: Canada
APPROVED!

{The best offence is a good defence; especially if that defence is a 20 pound slab of metal.} ~ Yoz

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 Post subject: Re: Ansol Gierhardt, Veteran Fighter
PostPosted: Fri Dec 23, 2011 7:20 pm 
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No secrets for me in MW
No secrets for me in MW
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Joined: Tue Dec 05, 2006 6:22 am
Posts: 554
Location: Kentucky
A wise warrior never refuses a gift.

A wise warrior is, however, wary when it comes from someone who can enter his dwelling without a sound.

+ 5 gold

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