Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-43665987-20191119024155/@comment-31336039-20191119204940

Pierre Pevel, from noble blood, yet a fallen house, was a mercenary by profession. He travelled on foot, holding his old horse by the bridle. The bags overflowing with his personal belongings. With his Bec de Corbin on the shoulder, giving him a worrying look. This weapon had certainly known better days but it remained sturdy and deadly. A short sword, some daggers placed in their sheaths, attached to the belt. And a crossbow within reach in a bag, the butt slightly protruding.

As he get wearier, he could not stop wondering if he could earn enough to spend the winter safe from need. And even better, to be noticed and enter the service of a lord. He sighed at this dream that had become difficult as the years passed. He had experience, but was no longer young and flashy. As well as his armor damaged by the fighting and deliberately blackened with fire to protect it from rust and reduce its visibility. Very far from an eye-catching armor.