Archibald Roseblade

The tricksters child:

There is a saying in the wild depths, that like the leaves fall in autumn, those born a jester shall be cursed with frailty and cruelness to the roots. These children are destined for nothing. A mere shadow of mockery to the noble hearts that children of spring and summer carry. To be born within the jester's first day, would be the man or woman to turn into the very incarnation of all that is twisted.
The young Archibald Roseblade was such a mythical child. Hated by the village from his very birth. A spite that only grew with the years, as he turned into a mischievous trickster with spring in his steps and an outlaws smirk on his lips. A fool of a boy who would never listen to authority, and without the strength and dedication to master the legacy sacred longbow. He was a failure who brought shame to the village elders.
On his seventeenth birthday, Archibalds unorthodox manners gave him a ticket to the rangers lodge. An ironic punishment as he'd dreamed of being a veilwood ranger ever since his long missing grandfather first taught him hunting.
His training was harsh and unfair, as his own childhood heroes flogged him as the core example on what the failure of a boy was, to make the other disciple look down on Archibald. The irony soon came, as he easily surpassed the other students in both his scouting abilities, intelligence and creative solutions to problems.
Archibald started to enjoy the chaos and came to adore the punishments the rangers threw his way, as his calmness time and time again turned punishments into grindstones for his scheming blade against his peers. People he once looked up to as heroes, he slowly slowly realized where nothing more than pathetic sleazeballs. Men and women who did nothing else than hide in their lodges, playing the power game of deceitful romance and passion with the noble courts.
Soon the failure of a child snapped in half the bow he'd never wield, as his parents looked on in shock. "Do not fear my choice, as I'll rise above the canopy to see through the leaves." He told his family with a bright smile, as the rangers lodge threw him out into exile from the village grounds. Outlaw's smile once more playing over the tricksters lips, he never hesitated to join the Order of Blossoms, as a squire for the hated Lord Markith Lovesworth.

The quest:

The whistling leaves would weep in dread. A disease seeping in the waters beyond the soil, that twists and perverts the stubborn roots. An autumn of blood and rot. It was this fateful autumn on Archibald’s twentieth birthday that his quest beggan. A woman named Awryll was waiting within the southern lands of Westport. A bride to be escorted back to Lord Lovesworth's castle in Peregon. A task naught meant to send him into the danger zone, but to be a lesson in the formalities and court ethics he lacked.
A lesson that had gone south at the very moment the clockwork temptations stole his heart. He had only taken the first step into the city of Westport, when he was struck blind in fascination with the machine streets. Clinicly clean pavements of smooth cobble, patrolled by sparky machines and custodians that smelled of oils and sung of rusted cogs.
In his tango with fate, the young squire forgot about time and waltzed onwards to witness technological wonders of civilization. Stores, observatories and even a zeppelin hangar he'd explore, as the lady to be wed ran away the man she truly loved. Happily oblivious, Archibald spent his night watching old fossils at the national museum of Westport while gorging on his newfound snack called icecream.
As moonlight made it's break through the veil of clouds, a stressed out Archibald arrived at Awryll's estate only to learn from her family that she had gone up in smoke. From a tale of being sold out for power, and her sisters begging Archibald to track her down, he alone understood why the lady had run. While answering Awryll's sisters pleading with a cackle, the outlaw bowed for himself and stormed out the gates without a care in the world.
With a nauseous frown, he tripped through the dark alleyway, unwise of the crettins that prowled the piss-stained streets at night. A scream of foreign tongue and the light of a lantern caught the seething youngling in surprise, as a group of local thugs rushed him. A swivel of his heels, a spinn of the quarterstaff, and less than fifteen seconds of a knee-shattering flurry danced with fury as four burly cowards would find themselves bound together, bloodied and dumped in the ditch with. Laughing on top of his lungs with amusement, Archibald asked the bandits as to why they attacked him. However he was at a loss of words, when they spilled the beans that Lady Awryll and some Maester Morbidius didn't want any Peregonian whiteknight to interrupt his plans by being chivalrous poppycocks.
After smacking the air out of the bandits for the second time that night, Archibald knew well enough where in the woods to look, as he set out to unravel what madness he'd stepped in on.
With map and compass in hand, and a stolen revolver in his holster, he snuck into the wilds to face an impossible challenge, to find a needle in a haystack. An impossible challenge that proved easy, as his ranger skills let him traverse the woods like a silent ghost that stalked his mark through signs of disturbed nature.
Soon enough, and as the sun rose in the horizon, he finally found his quarry within a hidden hamlet. From the shadows, he observed horrors like never before. Innocents, civilians, soldiers and people from all walks of life, caught in cages, twisted, tormented and crafted into abominations from magics drawn from the darkest depths of the sickest of souls.
And the ranger general was there, making merry and sipping on fine wine, as Archibald for the first time had to bear witnessed to murder, when he saw how a familiar sillhuete sweeped in from the darkness to fight the twisted humans that danced around. He could hear the shots of a repeater ringing, as he saw rabid women with tails and horns charge ahead with fire and claws, as men with abnormal amounts of limbs flanked from the sides.
Many demons fell from the hail of bullets, but Archibald wouldn't find air in lungs as he felt it. A sudden bolt of thunder whistled past. He couldn't shout and warn the man, as the arbalest caught the hunter through the lung. He watched motionlessly as the hunter fell to the ground, before the mental spell that kept Archibald frozen finally broke.
He stalked after the demons while they dragged the body away, hoping that the coated mystery man was still alive, while he took position in a nearby bush they'd soon pass. He held his breath, and with leathery gloves cramping around the daggers hilt, he launched out from the leaves and into his first kill. With the slice of a throat, the blood gurgling sounds would almost paralyse him in shock, but he kept moving with the flow, as steel crashed through the neck of the second demon, leaving the mortally wounded Occult-Hunter to fall into his arms.
In the light of Helgridd's moon, he could see the face of his grandfather smile at him, while eyes fueled with wrath gazed into his own. "I see the pain in your soul, Tricksters child. My time, it is over. But your legend, your legend has yet to begin." The dying man coughed blood, as he clenched his teeth so hard they almost shattered, while he tore off his coat to reveal a tool of war. A gauntlet of the northern gods. "Archibald, I t-trust, you'll f-finish this." He gasped for air, eyes rolling back into his skull, as he muttered his last words. "We'll meet where the roots all connect, Archibald."
Now armed with his grandfather's rifle and the gauntlet of Thôkarr, Archibald descended on the bastards like he was hellfire incarnated. He'd emerge like a gore spraying storm, before vanishing into the shadows, only to reemerge with shaking earth, as the vile sickness was cured, lead pill after lead pill. Through the smoke from the drumming guns, he hunted down the cultists to the last man, like a wraith cleaning up the entire house. They stood no chance, as he was always one step ahead, always on the hunt and never the prey.
When the rays of dawn pierced the skies, the captives would see the carnage, and how one man alone tore open the doors to their cages. One of these captives came crashing down to him in tears, weeping of her mistake and a promise to never run away from Lord Lovesworth again. She'd marry the man who sent the hero, and not the demon for her. Yet Archibald simply shrugged his shoulders and said. "Don't have time to care what'cha do with your freedom, there's yet one putrid bastard I've left to hunt."

Legend born:

After a couple days at sea, Archibald returned to the Eastweald with Lady Awryll following willfully in tow. The people could neigh believe the tales the raven had brought. Yet there was no time to be hailed a hero. The two instead returned to Lord Lovesworth with haste, to tell him of the Ranger General's deceit.
In time, the Lady and Lord Lovesworth would be happily married and supportive of one another, as they rose a noble house like no other. It yet stands tall and firm, as the name of Lovesworth rose from a word spoken in disdain and disgust, to a rhyme sung in glory and hope. A hope born with Archibald's knighting, and his tale that there was still hope for the fools and morons alike to change and grow.
For Archibald, there was however no rest. Once more, he found himself waltzing with a wicked smirk, onto the steps of the Ranger's lodge. The doors flew open, as Archibald faced the man who once was his hero. Now he saw him in colour. A blasted old cheater with no empathy and only fear beating in his chest. A craven who knew too damn well about the sickness that spread through the roots, as he bled it's very poison himself. Still, no bullets rang, no sword sung. Archibald merely whispered in his ear. "When autumn comes, the leaves shall fall, and the jester dances once more."
The villain pleaded for his life, as like thunder the walls suddenly caved in. Screams rang in echoes as the rangers one by one got knocked out and caught by the elite of King Castellians own men. Sent by Lord Lovesworth message, Archibald waltzed out into the night as his tale ended.
"At last, we meet."
With a raised eyebrow, the knight spun on his heels to face an antlered woman clad in green plate. Slowly, he realized he was in a world not his own, and only the king stood by his side. "Sir Archibald Roseblade, Knight of House Lovesworth, child to the Fool and hero of the woods." A sly grin played on the king's lips as the Spring Lady held forth a shotgun for him.
"Will you be my champion, sir Roseblade?" The mythical lady asked.
Archibald took a hold of the vine and rose covered gun, as he swung it over his back with a bright smile. "We've got a plague to cure."
And thus, just like the cycle of nature always goes on, a new tale is spun!

Archibald Roseblade spinning his lead in the woods!

Famous quote

"Punish me, I'll take it with a smile. You may call it madness, 'till the day comes when you'll see just how foolish I am. For each dagger you've etched in my back, and each stone you've slung at me, I've received nothing less but another sharpened blade you don't want thrown back at thee."

The force gauntlet of Thôkarr

Earth - Kinectic energies, that lets the wielder punch through the hardest metal doors by drawing from the force of their energy, that collect on one focus point, being the extensive piston puncher.
Wind - Electric wrath at the fingertips. A coil with leathery cover to protect the body of the wielder, as it allows the energies within the wind to be called on like the storms!
Water - Exhausts and runes inside the mechanism, that can cast mists out in the field. Good for rusting down iron, or killing a fire!
Fire - Through the pipes in the knuckles, send forth the cleansing flames to purge the foul!

Species

Mankind

Date of Birth

First day into the Jester's month.

Year of Birth

1419 UP 450 Years old