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Reynard Sven Graywacke & Seb — The Mercenary and The Mastiff

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Reynard Sven Graywacke & Seb

The Mercenary and The Mastiff



NAME: Reynard Sven Graywacke (RAY-nard SFEN GRAY-whack)

CANINE COMPANION: Seb (170 lbs. Gray Mastiff)

IS A(N): Genesaran human; lycanthrope

HEIGHT: 6'5'' 

WEIGHT: 167 lbs. 

AGE: 31 

GENDER: male

BIRTHPLACEShrine City, Genesaris

JOB / ROLE / TITLE: mercenary 

SKIN COLOR: fair skinned

HAIR: short, spiked 

HAIR COLOR: auburn 

EYE COLOR: blue-gray

VOICE: baritone

DOMINANT SIDE: ambidextrous, right eye dominant

BUILD: muscular (ectomorph)

OUTFITS: mercenary's attire: leather armor, heavy wool clothing, and a faded green cloak lined with fur

SCARS / TATTOOS: large bite mark scar ranging from his neck to right shoulder


  • independent
  • objective, perceptive
  • tactless
  • tenacious
  • uncouth
  • vindictive


  • excellent with a crossbow
  • excellent with a sword
  • is well versed in the art of brewing both magical and mundane concoctions -- a skill earned via years of trial and error






  • 565 - 578 WTA:
    • A Dreamer Long Dead
      • is born in Shrine City, Genesaris to a tavernkeeper and barmaid
      • parents die in an inferno within the family-owned tavern
      • becomes a street urchin







ATTIRE: a thick, gray wool shirt, khaki trousers, leather boots, and a faded laurel green hooded cloak lined with fur, all worn due to much use over the years.

ARMOR: leather vambraces and leather greaves, steel poleyn for the exposed knees, and a small coat of chainmail worn underneath his daily attire.

SUPPLIES: a rucksack of various supplies, a shady dagger, a bag o' coin, empty phials and glass bottles for his hobbyist habits, and more.


   PRIMARY WEAPONRY: a steel shortsword -- trusty, reliable,  a few nicks on the edge, and yet still sharp enough to kill.

†   SECONDARY WEAPONRY: a fairly large crossbow -- practically an arbalest considering the force of each shot, requiring much strength to load but a single bolt.

   THIRTEEN RAVENS: thirteen coins of jet black metal, contained within a small pouch around the man's neck -- a rare, but official form of currency in Genesaris; however, they are not for spending. They are a memento of Reynard's deceased mother.

   OL' FRIEND: a trusty flask of liquid courage, banged up and beaten from many long nights, but never one to let a drunk man down.





Edited by Pseudonym
Changing to an Original Format

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The Past and Present:

A Dreamer Long Dead.

     Hailing from the Cold South of Genesaris, Reynard knows far too well the struggle to survive. Experiences in this region were raw, uncensored. The weather was most definitely harsh in all quarters of the year. Brutal winters were only halted by brief, sub-par summers. Stories of children being snatched by the various beasts that inhabited the Southern Wilderness were told by many mothers to the sons in the hopes that they would not wander the forests that line the coast. Such stories proved to be true, and even if the monsters didn't snatch such willing prey, the frozen bite of winter's chill would leave no warmth of life left.

     Born as the bastard child to a tavernkeeper and barmaid in the heart of Shrine City, the young child was exposed to the uncouth and rowdy side of the Cold South. Everyday, there would be drunken brawls, ne'er-do-wells of all kinds, and the occasional female presence that caused young Reynard's imagination to flourish. Despite Reynard's mother's best efforts, some traits of these individuals rubbed off on the mercenary-to-be. Inspired by the tales of inebriated soldiers, adventurers, and mercenaries, Reynard dreamed of someday exploring the wonders of Genesaris. Magic, dragons, the entire world -- they were all things he wanted to see.

     For the time, this dream would have to wait as he was relegated to helping his father with the business as a waiter.

     His father tended to disregard Reynard -- primarily because his legitimate wife couldn't stand the thought of the man cheating on her with "the wench," as she called it. His biological mother (the "wench"), one of the barmaids of the tavern, was a more maternal figure than legal mother. She would beat sense into Reynard if he got out of hand. A lusty glance at a female customer would earn the boy a harsh beating from his mother. A few sailor's words spoken from Reynard's mouth would land him without dinner so his foul tongue would hopefully "perish of starvation." In her eyes, it was "gentle discipline." Despite such punishment, his mother always treated him in a stern but loving manner. She let him try ale after he begged her for three weeks straight -- something that most mothers would never let their child do at such a tender age. The woman would give him a single raven when it was his birthday so that he could spend for himself -- a hefty sum when considering his mother's occupation, with a rare type of denomination at that. Blood, sweat, and tears all went into but a single coin, and yet she gave it to her son to keep. And every night, without fail, she oft told him stories of the outside world -- of Valucre. They would laugh together, go out to the baker's to buy bread and such together, and other small things. It was not much of a childhood, especially when compared to to privileged lives of those who lived in the North, but it was enough to make Reynard happy.

*     *     *     *     *     *

     Watching his parents' murderers be executed live on Shrine City's Execution Day didn't bring closure to Reynard at all. He thought the spray of blood from the executioners axe would wash him of his trauma. What happened to the tavern -- no, what happened to his mother that night was unspeakable, unforgivable. The fire. The blaze. The shattered glass. Nothing could erase the images burned into his memory. It was a simple night, and what seemed to be a usual bar fight turned into something much more. Now without a home, a family, a place to call his own, Reynard goes on as a wandering mercenary. He lives by the present, drinks to forget the past, and cares not for the future. As long as he has coin in his wallet, he'll just keep living as he does...

     ...but a man never forgets.

     Within a small pouch -- separated from the rest of his belongings --, the sound of thirteen black coins can be heard with each heavy step the forsaken man takes.

Edited by Pseudonym

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The Past and Present:

The Potioneer and the Pup ~ A Brief Apprenticeship

     What else was he supposed to do? Starve to death on the streets of Shrine city? His stomach had been without food for several days, and worse off, it was the middle of winter within the Cold South. All of the street urchins had already scrapped the alleys clean of whatever food was tossed aside. No -- Reynard wasn't going to die, frozen and alone. Breaking the window to the shop was easy -- the glass shattered with the toss of a small stone.

     Looking through the wares, he perused the aisles for some form of sustenance, but to his dismay, he only found bottles of strange shapes and sizes containing fluids of different colors. Then suddenly, he heard the sound of muffled footsteps. It had only been a few seconds since the break in, and to his surprise, the boy found himself knocked out cold on the floor -- whacked upside the head from behind by something heavy  -- how was he supposed to know that the shopkeeper was asleep underneath the front counter?

*     *     *     *     *     *

     It had been three years since the young hooligan was taken in by Master Bartholomeus as his apprentice. While some viewed the gesture as an act of immeasurable kindness, Reynard viewed it as the shopkeeper's way of enacting his sadistic revenge for the pane of glass shattered many moons ago. As an aging man of arcane craft, Bartholomeus saw the orphaned child as a chance to pass on his knowledge of potioncrafting.

     He was a relentless teacher.

     From arsenic to quicksilver, foxglove to wolfsbane, ambergris to sheepsblood -- the potioneer beat the knowledge into the boy's thick skull over the course of a few years. Endless numbers of recipes, countless lessons on preparation: how to heat a cauldron, how to prepare the ingredients, how to brew without burning -- these were all topics which Reynard learned after many trials, and many more errors.

     When he wasn't being educated, the potioneer knew how to keep the boy busy with work. Cleaning was of course the standard task; however, it was far more difficult than at the bar. At least back at his father's tavern, Reynard did not have to worry about the nature of the thing he was cleaning. Now, he had to face the horrors that were his master's failed experiments. A splatter of acid, a puff of venomous powder, and sometimes a concoction that would explode if a so pin so much as dropped at its side. Never, ever, laugh at those who are responsible for cleaning things -- you never know what kind of messes other people leave behind that they have to deal with.

     Aside from that, he also served as a delivery person for the potioneer, picking materials up and dropping off goods. Whether it be salves, cure-me-all's, vicious poison, and sometimes salted water (which quite surprisingly worked as a great placebo for those who believed it was panacea), the boy would deliver it wherever it was needed. The customers payed a lump sum of coin, to which Reynard would sneak a kite or two for his own. Batholomeus was the miserly type, paying Reynard only a single rosy for all his efforts. Was he the one traveling to the slums of Shrine City? No.

     The potionmaster drove Reynard like a slave in both education and at the shop, but Reynard never complained once -- the man was like the father he never had.

*     *     *     *     *     *

     Walking back home from on a cold day in the fall, Reynard was haggard from running all over the town. It was his birthday, and yet his master sent him all over the town with more work than he's ever assigned. When the apprentice arrived at the house, he was greeted by an unfamiliar sound -- barking.

     For once, in the four years he's been under the house master's wing, he had actually gotten a gift.

     Reynard can still remember the first words the man told him when he walked in the creaky wooden door: "Surprise, my apprentice! I got you one hell of a gift," the crazy old fool announced with his trademark wink. Lacking creativity, the once-boy (now-man) decided to name the pup Seb, short for Sebalia -- his mother's name . Little did Reynard know the arcanist was being very literal with his words. Unbeknownst to Reynard, what looked to be the gray pup of a mastiff actually was a mutt -- a father of hellish origins. Maybe one day, Bartholomeus's last surprise will become apparent to his apprentice....

*     *     *     *     *     *

     The scene was all too familiar -- shards of glass littered across the floor, a splash of blood, store shelves ransacked of all its goods. A burglary much like the one that began his life anew, but this time, with a much different ending.

     He fell to his knees, screaming at the fates who had taken yet another family member away.


Edited by Pseudonym

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