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 Revised Bio for Ricgard

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Posts : 29
Join date : 2009-08-31
Age : 35
Location : Seattle, WA

PostSubject: Revised Bio for Ricgard   Sat Sep 12, 2009 6:25 am

I've made some changes to Ricgard's persona. Just more fun to RP this way. Also a whole lot more backstory. Working on a story-form biography of Ric that's about 19 word processor pages thus far, probably won't post it on here due to length though. Anyway, here it is. Disregard my other bio please. Razz


The sky was a dismal shade of grey this day. The air was crisp and cold, so cold it pierced the lungs with every breath like a thousand tiny daggers. The air was calm though... serene. Trees stood perfectly still against the somber sky, with not a wisp of air to ruffle their branches. All the world was as motionless and peaceful as a fine painting.

Ricgard interrupted his chore to look out across the field. He had been hard at work all that morning, and though he was nearly finished he decided to pause and take in the scenery. He pulled his helmet off and tossed it aside, wiped the sweat off his brow, then reached for the whiskey flask he always kept on hand. The old flask was near as old as Ricgard, but held the fine spirit as well as it ever had. Lifting it high in the air, Ricgard took a mighty swig, then surveyed his surroundings.

"Cimmeria sure is beautiful this time of year", he said out loud. "Is it not?"
The Vanir warrior could only stare back at Ricgard with a blank expression. Ricgard looked down with a friendly smile that made no true effort to hide the wickedness behind it. He bent down to look his chore in the eye.
"Not much of a talker, eh?"
It was a rhetorical question. The dying Vanir wanted nothing more than to spit on the Cimmerian's face in defiance, or curse him a thousand times over. But he could do no such thing, not with the cold iron point of Ricgard's spear lodged deep in his throat. He could only look on with impatience, waiting for the burly Cimmerian to finish him and end his suffering.

But Ricgard was too distracted to notice. A brief parting of clouds allowed the light of the sun to briefly illuminate the picturesque landscape around him. The blood-soaked ground was littered with the mangled bodies of both Vanir and Cimmerian as far as the eye could see. Tattered banners and bloodied flags hung perfectly still in the windless morning air, held in place by the cold lifeless hands of men whose honor it was to carry them into certain doom. The battle was without equal in this war, by sheer size and scale it was a hundred times more destructive than any that came before. Tens of thousands took part, united clans of Cimmerians and Vanir clashed here in what should have been a decisive turning point for whoever survived. No force on Earth or beyond could have stopped Ricgard from taking part.

The battle lasted 6 hours in all. At this point it was unclear who won, save the carrion birds who feasted upon the newly dead. Ricgard, who represented no tribe or chieftain, had the honor of making the first charge. It was a glorious experience for the young Cimmerian, who spent the whole engagement at the very center of the melee, gleefully hacking his countless enemies to pieces while singing his battle songs... fully enjoying every minute of this ecstacy of carnage. His foes seemed limitless, waves of men broke against him like waves break upon the shore. He could not get enough of it, there were not enough Vanir born since the dawn of time to satiate Ricgard's lust for carnage. But like all good things, it had to come to its bloody conclusion. Just the simple matter of mopping up the few survivors remained.

The battle had been over less than a half hour when Ricgard looked back down at his chore.
"Oh, sorry comrade... nearly forgot about you."
Ricgard pulled the spear from the Vanir's lifeless throat. He looked it over; sighted the length for warps, checked that the point was still sharp, and pulled a clump of red hair off the tip. Satisfied, he looked out once again at the grizzly scene before him.

"Aye, beautiful."

"I've sold my sword to anyone,
willing to pay the price.
'No regrets for what I've done',
the Mercenary's Lie."

- Excerpt from a popular mercenary campfire song


Birth Name: Argyle mac Olbrecht (Note: Ricgard does not actually know his birth name)
Vanir Name: Ricgard Rasmussen
Birthplace: Northwestern Cimmeria, exact location unknown
Family Members: (Note: Ricgard has very little memory of his family)
Father - Olbrecht (deceased 29 years, age 39)
Mother - Flora (deceased 29 years, age 31)
Brother - Cormac (deceased 29 years, age 14)
Brother - Duncan (deceased 25 years, age 12)
Current Residence: Vagrant
Occupation: Retired Mercenary
Age: 34
Birthday: April 14th
Height: 6'6"
Weight: 22 stone (310 lbs)
Hair: Brown (keeps head shaved)
Eyes: Blue

Personal Motto:

"My Honor is Loyalty,
My Loyalty is Sacrifice,
My Sacrifice is Death,
My Death is an Honor."

D&D Alignment: Lawful Neutral

"Hear their tortured screams,
shattering the air.
They'll awake from soothing dreams,
into their worst nightmare."

- Excerpt from a Vanir raider's hymn


At the age of 5, Argyle's family were butchered by Vanir raiders. He and his brother Duncan were taken as slaves, until 4 years later when Duncan was killed by their drunk and enraged master. Argyle, now called Ricgard by the Vanir, vowed vengeance and after 6 years of training in secret, slew his master with his own sword. He then slew 3 others who tried to apprehend him, winning the respect of all who witnessed the event, and earning Ricgard a sponsor by the name of Rasmus who took him in as a son. He would henceforth be known to the Vanir as Ricgard, son of Rasmus or Rasmussen.

Ricgard's early adulthood was a never-ending bloodbath. Proving his manhood meant going on Vanir slave raids, sometimes even into Cimmeria. These acts shamed him so much that he chose to forsake the Vanir ways and wander the world plying the only trade he knew, as a mercenary. His need for coin and lack of morals lead Ricgard to commit countless acts of cold-hearted brutality that he would come to regret later in life. The razing of entire villages, the murdering of innocent women and children. After over a decade of murder-for-profit, Ricgard's conscience could bear no more burden and he returned to Vanaheim with his vast fortune. It took less than a year for Ricgard to spend every coin on liquor and whores in a futile attempt to drown out his guilt and shame, and once penniless decided the only course of action remaining was to seek his redemption among his own people. And so Ricgard, penniless and with naught but his guilt to keep him company, returned to Cimmeria, to seek that redemption.

After 5 years spent wandering through his homeland, Ricgard found nothing resembling his home. He also found no acceptance by his countrymen, labeled a "traitor" and "Vanir lapdog" by fellow Cimmerians. Frustrated and hungry for adventure once again, he traveled southwards and found acceptance in a group known as Sealladh. Now, with his new-found comrades, his story can truly begin.

"I don't deserve your sympathy,
I know who I am.
My soul is death and misery,
I am an evil man."

- Engraved on a medallion Ricgard wears at all times (like a dog-tag)


Few alive in Hyboria or beyond have witnessed, or caused, the carnage that Ricgard has. His heart is wracked with the guilt and shame of past deeds. The faces of the innocent men, women, and children he butchered in cold blood haunt his dreams nightly. One might assume this would make Ricgard a solemn introvert, preferring solitude and seclusion to reflect on his misery. But this is far from the case. Ricgard copes with his madenning depression and shame by making every attempt to enjoy life to its fullest, to live everyday as if it were his last - without thought of consequence or responsibility. He understands that his death is well-deserved as reparation for his crimes, and tries his best to live his life well until it happens. Ricgard has no fear of death, but instead welcomes it with open arms. Not an inglorious death, from a long fall or a drunken dispute in a tavern, but a glorious and bloody death from an enemy who deserves to kill him on the field of honor.

As a career soldier, Ricgard behaves much as one would expect. He is boisterous, loud, crude, vulgar beyond reason, jokingly arrogant, a chauvinist, a womanizer, a teller of raunchy stories involving Zingaran whores and their many attributes. These qualities make him less than popular among many that are forced to share company with him, especially women, but those who know Ricgard for what he is know that deep down he is a good-natured and well-meaning brute. Ricgard has few friends, but those that he calls friends are friends for life. There is no length he will not go to help a friend in need, and there is no finer companion to have at your side in the heat of battle. Loyal beyond question, and brave to the point of reckless, Ricgard would gladly sacrifice himself to protect those under his charge.

Ricgard does not believe in the concepts of right or wrong, good or evil. To him there is only duty. Even as a mercenary, he refused to betray any employer no matter how large the purse. In many cases his employers were murderous madmen, ordering him to commit unspeakable acts of senseless brutality, acts that in many cases shamed Ricgard to carry out. But his strong sense of duty ensured that these despicable acts were committed without question or pause. To Ricgard, honor is loyalty to oath, and no deeds good or evil can come in the way of his honor. No matter how much blood is on his hands, Ricgard will always find a way to cope. Always.

Though he spent most of his life among the Vanir, in Vanaheim, Ricgard has no problem killing his former countrymen. He considers the Vanir to be the worthiest enemy a Cimmerian could ask for. Killing Vanir is an honor, one that Ricgard takes great pleasure in.

Ricgard speaks with a slight Vanir (Norwegian) accent, faint but noticable. He nearly always has a crooked smile on his face that makes him look rather sinister. This often puts people off, but it is a genuine smile that Ricgard's facial scars contort. As a "blue collar" man, Ricgard loves to jest with anyone who will snap back. This has caused more than one angry bar brawl, but there are some who play along. If he makes fun of your ridiculous-looking hat, he fully expects and wants you to snap back with a comment about his whore of a mother. This will always get a hearty laugh from Ricgard. The more vulgar and below-the-belt your joke, the more Ricgard will like you. Pull no punches when speaking with him, for he'll pull none back. He is brutally honest, not because he means to insult anyone, but merely because he grew up without any concept of courtesy or politeness. There is little room for such things in a soldier's camp.

When in a serious environment, such as in the presence of honored leaders or during a war council, Ricgard drops all jokes and becomes the straight-faced soldier, grizzled and emotionless. He takes his duties and obligations very seriously.

Regarding Currency
When IC, Ricgard will often use the following terms to describe the various denominations of coin in Hyboria.

1 Tin = 1 Jot
50 Tin = 1 Shim
1 Copper = 1 Shilling
50 Copper = 1 Pfenning
1 Silver = 1 Talent
50 Silver = 1 Silver Mark
1 Gold = 1 Mark
50 Gold = 1 Grossmark
100 Gold = 1 Crown


Ricgard Rasmussen
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