Cadeir Firvo

Cadeir Firvo was born in Tridam, orphaned by happenstance and drifting, until he found a home within a band of three misfits that called themselves the Sons of War. All of them were urchins, made so by sickness or battle, it didn't matter- in that group, you were all family no matter age, creed, race, or gender. Cadeir was better for it. Their group was one led by an 18 year old with knowledge beyond his youth, a man named Ceiclo. He cared for these misplaced kids like an elder brother would. He taught them honor and pride, stubbornness and compliance. He taught them what it meant to be born with the lowest of life prospects and make something of it.

Seven years later, and no longer a pup of 16, Cadeir finally felt like he could make something of himself, turn himself into the man he imagined his absent father would be proud of- wouldn't be absent for. He would hop from job to job around Tridam; one day he was a ship worker the second he was a warehouse laborer. He made money and a name for himself that way. Every now and then he would reminisce on his rocky childhood with the now grown members of the Sons of War. The wise Ceiclo had become a ship captain at 25 and a father of three. The sly young Alma a washmaiden at the local tavern. Scrapper Larnell: a married guardsman under Tridam's baron.

Cadeir was glad his family had found a niche for themselves, their contentment seeping into himself. He had no complaints with his life, happy for the future.

At least, until Tridam's Ultimatum.

Who would have thought that a few jailed bandits could bring about so much death. The day started like any other: breakfast and work, a drink at the tavern and flirting with Alma. Though, that's where the normalcy ended. A peasant had burst through the tavern doors, screaming about fire and blood and bandits. Cadeir felt his throat close with fear while the room descended into panic, people rushing out to the docks and others curling further into their mugs of ale, muttering prayers even as they sat and stagnated in their vices. Cadeir spared a short look towards Ailma before they both raced towards the docks as well.

There were fires crackling in spots on the docks, but what really gathered their attention was the barge atop the water. Pilgrims, notable by their frocks and the holy books on their belts, were lined up on the side of the boat closest to the main crowd of civilians on the dock. Armed and armored men circled them, like drowners to fresh blood, faces twisted into scowls or ugly grins. They were taunting them, taunting them all.

The baron was there, the first and foremost on the dock, a line of soldiers behind and around him. Among them was Larnell, looking grim and ashen-faced. Cadeir quickly realized why.

The barge was Ceiclo's. And he was nowhere to be seen.

Only when the leader of the bandits showed himself, was Ceiclo found. His golden head dangled from the fiend's belt, knotted beard swaying past the stump of his neck with the gait of the leader's walk, once-bright eyes milky in their dark sockets.

Cadeir hardly remembered what happened after, a rush of red filled his sight and a crushing weight seemed to collapse his lungs. Flashes sung through his stilted memory- an ugly smile, a gesture, and then the pilgrims began to fall, one by one, into the dark waters below- the baron's fear palpable in the air, a hurried "Stop!" And then the slump of defeat in his shoulders.

The bandits got what they wanted.

Cadeir wasn't... right after the event, it was obvious to Alma and Larnell- he was the closest to Ceiclo despite being the newest to their brotherhood, so of course he wouldn't take his terrible death well. But they didn't think it would have such as extreme an impact as this. The first few days were the worst, people rumbled in the streets, angry that the evil men had been let free without even a hint of punishment. Cadeir didn't eat, nor did he sleep those few days. He kept seeing milky eyes and bloodied blond curls. But the more the days went on, the easier it became to forget, to force the memories from his mind. Soon, days turned to weeks, to months, then to years, and while Cadeir found solace in the ways his friends lives had progressed- Alma had married and their firstborn was well on its way; Larnell became Captain of the guard and his eldest daughter was soon to be wed- Cadeir found himself growing weary of Tridam and the taint he found within it.

And soon, he ventured out with no warning to his oldest friends. Leaving only an old brooch of a bronze flame Cieclo had given him, placed upon the foot of his bed.

And they knew, Alma and Larnell, they knew what it meant.

Their old friend was lost to them forever.

Cadeir had always been a kind, helpful soul- a man ready to give the shirt off his back to someone else in need. These traits were cultivated by a childhood rife with need and poverty, the highlights of that life being the kindness of others. So he hoped to give back by being as generous as those that had helped him. Before Ceiclo's death, Cadeir never would have thought of killing as a means to an end, but remembering the red that stained the gold of Ceiclo's hair, of the blood on his face and the stump of his neck.

Cadeir finds it easier to reach for his sword.

Since leaving Tridam, Cadeir finds enjoyment in the silence, the color and faint shades of the greenery, the new places to be found. Adventure and the excitement of new horizons has built a fire called curiosity, one that won't be easily quenched. The depths of his inquisitive nature astound him at times- he had never once entertained the thought of travel and foreign experience- not since meeting his true family- not since making a life for himself. It seemed the Ultimatum had made deeper ripples in the still waters of his self than he had once believed- ripping open that contentment like a bloated rotfiend's stomach.

It had always been there, under the surface, a part of him knew that. Yet he still finds himself surprised by the way his feet find the path so familiar.

Some days, he thinks back on how Alma and Larnell had taken take his abscence, did they miss him? Hate him? The questions and subsequent guilt dog him, even into slumber.

He doesn't try to make friends, they're not easy to keep for a wanderer, but when he does he guards them with a ferocity befit a starving bear and the loyalty to rival a good hound. Sometimes, he wonders whether he's making up for the friends he left behind.

Cadeir had been pushed around as a kid because of his size, slighter than the starved mutts that hung around Tridam's back alleys. He had enough fire to make up for his size though and his attackers most often ended up as battered as he was. As he grew his lithe form filled out, manual labor from the jobs he would take up helped build his musculature until he became broad-shouldered and lean-limbed. Years in the sun bronzed his skin, complimenting his thick dark hair and the glare of his oddly pale green eyes. The odd jobs Cadeir had performed helped him gain an arsenal of tricks with a blade, learning further under the tutelage of an old Nilfgaardian drinking partner- who he suspected had once been a knight of rather high renown, once upon a time. Those odd jobs had also been the cause of a few accidents which left their fair share of scars.

His are mostly faded and thin- scattered across his shins, back, and hands- from hard life on the streets and tasks he had once taken as a bruiser. The worst wound he had gained had actually been a training accident- his first try with real blades when it came to sparring with his mentor. The Nilfgaardian had had a few drinks just before and his hand slipped on his sword, slashing a long, shallow line across Cadeir's face. It healed oddly, so the scar remained.

His wardrobe hadn't much included armor, at least not until he began traveling. He favored cheap but durable clothing; workmen's shirts, thick pants, and his old worn boots. The armor he picked up on the road consisted of what he could cobble together with what little coin he had and what he could scavenge from... unfortunate bandits. A rough leather doublet layered over a brown padded tunic, his pants tucked into steel-toed boots with scuffed steel plates covering his shins and the sides of his thighs.

He dressed like the bandits he hated.