One of the mercenary circles who can trace their origins back to the Greater Comet School.
Need a mercenary, or two, or fifty? Don’t know whether to hire the Crimson Brigade or the Azure Legion? Unsure of Tim the Dragon-slayer’s effectiveness? Don’t know how to contact a group to set up a contract? Then come see Arkath, the man who can answer all those questions and more.
A voice as supple as silk, a face hidden in the shadows of a hood, yet the words she speaks are colder than the grave and burn more furiously than any inferno.
Thoral’s grim brigade is a mercenary unit under curse. They are led by Thoral, a half-undead half-realdead reanimated barbarian who negotiates the brigades affairs in a terse and direct whisper.
Also known as the Oathbreakers Legion, or the Forsaken, this company is often the last stop for criminals, vagabonds and vagrants before the headsman’s ax.
They stood on the crest of the rise, three men deep. Their banners, Golden Lions Rampant on a split field of red and blue, fluttering on long poles in the wind. They were silent. By some signal, they all began to rush forward screaming their battle roar. Halberd and blade coming open on the move. The enemy line broke under the power of the Lion’s signature charge.
Major Advarete, Memoirs of the Twin Rose Wars 1320 Greenfield Presses
The Crimson Skulls Company is a mercenary company of some repute. That repute is not always the most positive. Their Motto is “We are Dead; we have no fear of you.”
Two unlikely people. An unlikely pair. An unlikely love.
A once noble man, he was tossed aside and tortured. He is an empty shell of what use to be Human.
A potentially devastating foe with arms, and fists of living stone…
A one eyed mercenary the ladies just can’t get enough of.
A bald, runic-tattoo covered elven mercenary who looks out only for himself.
A great warrior, cursed with an eternal life and a dark companion.
A corrupted captain of the Western Empire.
They’re an odd set of siblings… excellent fighters and all too ready to take exception at the slightest thing…
In a small inn (the more remote the better), a man turns up dead. There are no wounds on his body what-so-ever, and he aboslutely reeks of garlic.
The man died of a curse that forced him to eat a clove of garlic a day or suffer the penalty. This gets really interesting if the body somehow appears on top of a someone the villagers are suspcious of.