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Sir Roldan Hungerford the Red

  • Gray eyes
  • Red hair
  • Red armor
  • 6' 2"
  • 246 lbs (without armor)
  • Dedicated
  • Single

A Bit of Background

From its lofty den, the dragon stirs. Its scales shatter the sunlight in a million tiny directions, staining it a sinister red. A pair of horns curve up along its head, burnished gold in color. As it spreads its batlike wings and takes flight, it truly presents an awe-inspiring image. Awe-inspiring, and deadly. Full of might and splendor, but old and terrible.

Sir Roldan takes a moment or two to think on these conflicting traits from his position on the ground. He has seen it all before; this is far from the first dragon he has faced. Even now he is clad in armor made from the scales of another ancient Red, the first to fall at his hand. Like this present threat, that first dragon had been terrorizing the townsfolk near its lair. Then, the knight had only been clad in old chainmail, armed with only a crude spear and a rusted longsword. When he'd set forth on that venture, he had been mocked, and the chorus of jeers stayed with him down that long road. The dragon had died, though, and although Roldan had been burned badly, he had still remembered to skin the wyrm before the flesh had been consumed by the beast's inner flames. He'd had armor made from those scales, and a shield from the bones. What he hadn't used, he had sold, earning himself enough gold to pay for the armor, better weapons, and a horse.

The dragon spins and wheels in the air, spouting streams of flame into the air in an attempt to frighten the tiny figure below. Its roar shivers through the air, causing the knight's horse to dance about, frightened. A tree catches fire, emitting a column of smoke for the dragon to sport with.

Sir Roldan does not react, other than to rap the horse smartly between the ears, settling it down as he ties its reins to a sapling. A young horse, and not fully trained. This steed is not the one he had bought so long ago. Then, he had named his mount, been fiercely proud of it. That horse had died under him, as had many and more after that. At some point, he had stopped bothering with names. ‘Horse’ worked well enough; he must have had a dozen named that by now. After he had killed that first dragon and two others, he had earned enough to replace each horse. Men called him the Dragonbane, the Dragonknight, the Red. Lords offered him places in their households. Other knights and warriors came to offer him battle. Some bested him at the joust. Most did not.

The dragon swoops in, jaws agape. Before it can release its deadly fire, however, Roldan cocks his arm back and throws, sending the trident whipping through the air. It catches the beast beneath one wing, right at the juncture. The dragon spirals, slamming into the ground near the knight, who readies his shield, draws his sword, and strides forward.

Sir Roldan’s sword is the latest of many, as well. Some he lost to victors in jousts, and some broke or were lost during battle. He had named some of them, too; a foolish thing to do, he knows now. Blood had stained every blade, however, and however much he polished them, they still seemed red to him. At first, he could even remember the beings whose blood had stained the steel. They all blurred together for him now, coloring the world around him crimson.

The dragonfire washes out, scorching the very ground as it flows toward the knight. His dragonbone shield seems to absorb a good part of the fire, drinking it in, greedily remembering the life it once had had. All the same, the metal parts of Roldan’s armor begin to heat up, starting the torrent of sweat to run, tickling, down his tensed limbs, sticking his fiery hair to his brow. Just as the fire stops, the human moves, his sword swinging in an abrupt arc. The blade slams into the dragon’s neck and further, drawing the thick, boiling blood to the surface. The beast’s roar splits the air, its talons swinging around wildly to catch its attacker, to rend and kill and fling away. The knight goes flying, landing in a crumpled head yards away.

Sir Roldan’s body is marked by injuries far greater than these fresh ones. Great scars slash across his arms and legs, his chest and back. He doesn’t remember how he got these, really. Here and there he remembers a sword biting into his flesh, a talon raking through armor and skin alike. But to him, these memories fade quickly, only the scars remaining to show his violent history.

The dragon, grievously wounded, lurches after its enemy. But Sir Roldan is faster; with grim determination, he rises to his feet, his sword miraculously still in hand. Shouldering his shield, he charges as if to meet the raging beast. At the last second he spins, the movement encumbered by armor and hardly speedy, yet fast enough to evade the injured dragon. His maneuver takes him around full circle, slamming the sword back into the previous wound. The beast’s charge turns into a plunge, its flame spurting out from the gaping hole in its neck. Inexorable, the knight steps forward, suffering another blast of flame as he hacks again and again; heavy, ugly butcher strikes. After six of these, the head hangs by a thin cord of scale and flesh. Once more, and the body writhes in its last death throes, an errant leg sending the severed head skittering away.

Sir Roldan begins to skin the dragon as soon as its movements still. He knows that the creature’s flames will consume it within the day. Methodically, he captures vials of blood, collects errant scales, and rolls back the heavy sheet of hide. He thinks on how many times he has done this; different dragons, different colors, different backdrops…but at heart, it is all the same. Usually, he sells the byproducts he takes from the slain, but with this one, he will keep the scales to repair his armor. The blood and bone he can sell, and then he will move on. Westward, for now.

Current Events

  • Roldan is hunting the Black Lotus clan, for their criminal behavior.
  • Roldan has signed on as Larket's Sheriff.
  • Roldan appeared at the battle for Cenril to assist in defending an all but undefended area. He and a small brigade of knights fought valiantly, but the were overrun. Roldan took a spear to the side, and was dragged out by a few of his comrades, the only ones to survive.


An OOC Note

I just thought that I would note here that this character is a fighter. His life is dedicated to combat, and when without it, he is bored. He will seek out situations in which he must fight, and will call for duels when he feels insulted, or when RP justifies it. He will fight to the death in the right situation, but will not do it for no reason, with no RP leading up to it. Nor will he be involved in OOC duels, period. Spars, maybe, as I will need to get good at dueling with him, but that's about it.