Character Name: William Fletcher

Canon/Original: Original

Gender: Male

Age: twenty-two

Family:
Mother – Arane Fletcher (deceased)
Father – Mordecai Fletcher
Brother – Simon Fletcher (deceased), Ridley Fletcher
Sister – Imogen Fletcher (deceased)

Spirit:: N/A

Occupation: Escaped Serf, criminal

Place of Habitation: Lawley Fiefdom

Physical Description: Fletcher is pretty average when it comes to height and build. A touch on the malnourished side, he has a bit of a gangly look to him. He has high cheekbones, a jutting chin, and a largish nose that lists to the right side of his face. His upper lip is usually lost beneath a week’s worth of stubble (at least) that continues down his jaw and chin. His short and jaggedly-cropped hair is reddish-brown in color, and tends to stick up in every direction possible. His clothing is simple, made from homespun fabrics, and typically consists of brown canvas trousers, hand-me-down boots, a green linen shirt and a brown vest, with a light cloak of dark green material in the cooler months. A set of knives reside on his belt, and a quiver of arrows on his back.

Personality: Once a quiet, hardworking young lad, Fletcher has degenerated over the years into a charming, compulsive liar of a criminal. Illiterate and uneducated, he can nonetheless talk very well, and often chat his way out of a fair deal of trouble. Then again, his constant lying and loose tongue tend to get him in to a good deal of trouble as well.

Another source of trouble is his temper, which is quick to flare and burns hot. Fletcher is very much a slave to his emotions, including his constant tendency to fall in love with every passing milkmaid. He falls out of love just as easily, however – the repeated losses in his life have driven Fletcher to avoid getting too close to anything, and fostered his love of a wandering lifestyle. It’s possible they’ve also fostered his love of strong drink.

Possessed of a fair sense of humor, the multiple tragedies of his life have left that sense of humor tinged with sarcasm and a touch of cynicism. Still, never know what tomorrow will bring, eh? Now pass that bottle…

History: Belonging to a generation of native Thiasians, William Fletcher was born in a small fief to the north of the kingdom. He was also born into bondage ¬– his parents and their parent before them, and so on and so forth, were serfs. William and his three other siblings were the inherent property of Lord Walton Rochdale, a minor landowning noble.

While the life of man may be nasty, brutish and short, the life of a serf is nastier, more brutish, and shorter. Only William and three of his siblings survived past infancy to help their parents work the barren, rocky land. By day, they tilled and toiled, and by night, their father, Mordecai Fletcher, taught his sons how to make arrows, which they sold to the fief’s guards and to merchants passing through on their way to the keep, as a way of making an extra penny here and there.

Work was hard, and food was scarce, but the Fletcher family was close. William and his eldest brother Simon were inseparable, and they were fiercely protective of their younger sister, Imogen. While Simon fulfilled the role of the obedient eldest son, Will was the clown of the family, bringing light to any dilemma. When Will was seventeen, his mother gave birth to another son, christened Ridley. This happy occasion swiftly turned tragic when complications arose from the birth, and their mother bled to death during the night.

With their father devastated, most of the work fell on Will and Simon’s shoulders. Imogen took a job as a maid in the manor in order to help make ends meet, coming home each month to deliver her earning and visit her brothers and the baby. This arrangement had gone on for over a year when the Lord spotted her and took a fancy to her. When she shyly rebuffed his advances, he elected to take her by force. Incapable of living with the shame of the incident, she threw herself into the river less than a fortnight later. The Catholic cemetery being off-limits to suicides, Will and Simon had to bury her themselves behind the turnip patch.

God had taken their mother. But Lord Rochedale had taken Imogen. The brothers’ fury and hatred grew and seethed until it boiled down to the cold need for vengeance. They got it a few months later, when Lord Rochedale returned from a solo ride along the countryside. The brothers had seen him setting out along the road, and snuck into the manor stables to await his return. As he dismounted, the brothers leapt on him and brutally beat him to death.

The screams carried, and alerted one of the pages, who witnessed the murder and ran off shrieking. The two young men fled, stealing a set of horses and fleeing into the night with only the shirts on their backs (and the blood on their hands).

For a time they lived as outlaws, poaching, stealing, and ambushing travelers on the highway. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get by, and once a month Mordecai Fletcher received an envelope with ten pence enclosed.

Their luck ran out when a guard at Thiasa keep recognized them. A chase across the town ensued, and while Will escaped by the skin of his teeth, Simon was captured and hung the next morning as an example to the local serfs.

Alone in the world, Will has wandered aimlessly since, going by the name of Fletcher and getting money where he can (rarely legally). In towns, he scams, pickpockets, and cheats. In the country, he poaches the king’s game with homemade arrows. Now, recent rumors of peasant uprisings have led him to gravitate towards Lawley fiefdom…

Plot Potential: Serf uprising! Mwahaha! Also flirting and fraternizing with the lower class. Possible conscript, if nobody recognizes him?

SAMPLE RP (with this character only):

“Go away!”

“But I love you!”

“No you don’t, you just love my breasts!”

“What’s the difference?”

CRASH. A chamber pot shattered on the cobbles beside him, sloshing cess on to his boots.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Fletcher lifted his arms to shield him from any more objects Jezelle might elect to throw. “I just came to-”

“If you don’t sod off this minute,” she hissed, leaning out the window and giving him a tantalizing view down the collar of her nightdress, “I’ll wake my father up. Now GO!”

She slammed the shutters closed, and Fletcher was once again alone in the street. Well, mostly alone. He turned to look at the mangy stray sitting beside him, wagging its tail in the hope that scraps would occupy the imminent future.

“Did you see that?” The dog cocked its head to the side. “Bloody well broke my heart she did! A cold, cruel beauty, that Jezelle Carter!”

“Woof!”

“Oh, right, Carver. My mistake.” Fletcher scratched the back of his neck. He was fairly sure he’d gotten fleas sleeping on those burlap sacks the other night. “Something the two of us prolly ‘ave in common,” he muttered.

The dog whined.

“Yeah, you’re right. Life’s too short to be lovesick over the likes of her. What say we go an get ourselves a pint?” Not waiting for a reply, Fletcher set off down the moonlit street in the direction of the nearest pub. The dog trotted along at his side.

What's the name of the Creator God the Ekaini worship?: ((yes))