I had to come up with a background for my character to send to the DM. I don’t know anything about the setting, the character we’re in service of, or anything really, so I had to keep things vague. This isn’t what I sent. It’s Character Mush. Not polished, not paced, not very good. Just mush. But from it, I was able to get enough of the basic facts to send as bullets. Anyway, even though I didn’t feel like spending enough effort on this to make it “good”, it seemed like a waste to just delete it. And yeah, he’s a weaver-turned-warlord.
Bregar’s long and unlikely career began same as many children in the city: as an orphan scouring the streets for food an coin. Originally, Bregar had been the son of a weaver and a carpenter, though heavy taxes stole too much bread from their mouths, leaving them weak and succeptible to the seasonal plagues which afflicted the city. He was 10 when the cough took his parents. The city’s taxmen took everything else.
Larger than the other children, Bregar often found himself in the roll of footpad; his friends would set them up and he would knock them down. Usually the fat bureaucrats; the men working for the city were generally the only ones who had anything to take. He might have made a name for himself in the underworld, had not one of his victims been both a capable fighter and person of some importance in the city. At the age of 15, he was given a death sentence: to be sent to the frontier as part of the slave, debtor and prisoner auxilia for five years. He spent those years on the frontier, defying all odds time and again, surviving battles that few walked away from. Bregar proved his worth as an ambusher and skirmisher, and was soon given a small command of his own; some were fellow scoundrels, debtors and petty criminals who were fighting for their freedom, but others were volunteers and career military men.
Near the end of his fifth year, the auxillia faced a foe led by powerful magicians. Fire rained down and the army was decimated. The regulars retreated toward their supply line while the auxilia scattered, fleeing through the countryside. Though his sentence was almost up, Bregar was faced with a choice: return to the land that had took from him his parents and his freedom or live for himself, a free man? He rallied what he could of his companions and fled into the hills.
For a few years, the group hired out as mercenaries, guards or freelance adventurers, but many of the group still had dreams of returning home, paying off their debts, settling down. The massive defeat their homeland had suffered presented enough cover for them to eventually return, and those who could did. Bregar continued to hire himself out, usually as either a guard captain or scout leaders to powerful men who could afford someone with his skill and experience. Several years left him wealthy as a noble, and exploits in the name of a prince had earned him a title and an accompanying pension.
Bregar spent the days in opulent repose and the nights in drunken revelry. One night, on his way to his apartments, Bregar found himself confronted by a few dirty looking children. He was about to tell them to get out of his way when a loud, wet crack presaged his failing vision.
Bregar woke up in a strange bed, his head throbbing. He did not even bother to check his valuables. He knew they were gone. He had become what he had once hated. A fat pensioned nobleman, drawing his wealth from the purses of others rather than the labor of his hands. He’d gotten what he deserved.
“You are awake.”
“City life does not agree with you.”
“Doesn’t it, though?”
“You were once one of the most brilliant commanders, cunning scouts, and foremost warriors, I have heard. The Hero of Amun Hill. Leader of the Silent Slingers. A mercenary force to be feared and admired! And look at you now. Laid low by a child!”
Bregar sat up and touched the back of his head. It was bandaged, though wet with blood. “It would seem that I owe you my life.”
“I hope that the life you owe is not the one you lead now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at you? You’re a mess! You were taken down by a mere boy with a stick! No, if you wish to thank me, I choose only to be thanked by the man who led a thousand ambushes. You see, my name is Palantir, and I am a travelling merchant. I have need of one who was skilled as he. You. You will not do the trick. Not yet.”