Thibault Whesklyff
Race : Human.
Origin : Foreigner to Amn. Appears to be a mix of Tethyrian and Chondathan heritage.
Age : Mature, though not old. Mid to late 20s.
Height : 1.82 meters.
Hair : Pale-blonde.
Eyes : Greyish-blue.
Build : Trained, robust, strong forearms.
Attire : Dressed for practicality, in muted colors, worn dark grey cloth beneath simple iron.
Demeanor : Serious, focused, a lack of humor, at times utters his thoughts out loud.
Details : Forehead often furrowed despite the circumstances, calloused hands, old and healed
up scarring on his face stemming from both blunt and sharp instruments.
Demeanor : Serious, focused, a lack of humor, at times utters his thoughts out loud.
Details : Forehead often furrowed despite the circumstances, calloused hands, old and healed
up scarring on his face stemming from both blunt and sharp instruments.
Were it not for the uptake in attacks on traders and their caravans and the consequent need for every available sellsword's business it would have been quite unlikely for any man, travelling all by himself, to make it across the vast plains and hillsides that form the long divide between the borders of Cormyr and Murann.
But alas; hailing from the Land of the Purple Dragon, famous for being steeped in honor, tradition, blood and wine, this dour-faced man has now almost made it all the way to this corner of Amn.
"Almost. Almost..." he repeats out loud, all to himself, as he leans against the side of a wagon. The horses have been brought to a halt because of course; in times like these city officials refuse to just blindly allow any caravans to enter the city proper unchecked. That even includes traders who are known around here, like the one Thibault has stoically worked for as an impromptu guard. Paperwork needs to be checked, thorough searches are to be conducted, all the protocols have to be upkept by the law. Nothing new to a Cormyrean who's lived near Marsember. Security is always a large point of interest to such cities. Though now, on second thought, it's almost an insult to the arduous journey behind him to consider the small track up the road ahead anything more than a minor inconvenience. With a furrowed forehead he reflects on his thoughts, though stopped too soon by a shrill voice.
"The day's pay for all ye bought swords and men! Come and get it, none of this business behind the walls!" The rotund leader of the caravan stands perched up on the wagon just ahead of Thibault, red-faced from the mere act of getting up there. With soles worn to flaps, dirtied clothes and his body abused by the long journey Thibault absent-mindedly accepts a small pile of coins in the palm of his outstretched hand. A last payment at journey's end. He barely acknowledges the caravaneer's casual attempts at parting small talk as the Cormyrean stows the insultingly small reward away. His attention is already drawn to the fortified walls down the road. Grand Murann!
He knows; this whole mercenary act is over and done with and he can begin what he came here for. So very far away from the luscious greens of Cormyte fields, familiar forests and bitter heart aches rests his goal. If all goes well he may one day return to his homeland, a knight in his own right and of his own design, shrouded in tales of his deeds, to bring the necessary change his people need. But the Cormyrean does not fool himself. This will be another long, arduous and very difficult road that he has set for himself to walk. "Means to an end, that's what this is" he says out loud and all to himself again.
Then, one foot before the other, Thibault carries on towards the impressive walls and gates. The caraveneer is left stumped and mildly offended but quickly forgets all about this rude foreigner who sets off on his own. After all, other sellswords already push up in a rowdy line, eagerly demanding pay they're fairly owed ...
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