Dix maigres pièces d'or pour clémence.
"Si seulement tu nous avais offert ce marché il y a toutes ces années, bête. Nous aurions bien aligné vos poches.
Brande sourit fort, et s'installa dans une pose moins conflictuelle malgré lui. Il a baissé son épée, mais il ne l'a pas gainé: au premier signe d'une grève, Brande aurait cet oeil gauche orc.
Pourtant, il a essayé de donner l'air d'un négociateur sociable et sportif, mais il était clair dans ses expressions laborieuses que son boxeur a du mal à l'utiliser. Sa mâchoire était serrée, ses yeux durcissaient comme du gel sur du verre.
Au fond, la flamme métaphorique était allumée : les éléments de feu sentaient sa bouche sèche comme si elle était remplie de bourgeons de coton.
Il savait que ce ne serait qu'une question de match, et il pouvait déchirer ces deux béhémothes: mais la commotion qui en résulterait serait dévastatrice pour sa mission, et tuerait probablement plus de gens qu'elle n'en a sauvé.
Il a respiré – il a respiré. Et il entendit la voix de son père.
À quoi bon une épée rapide dans les mains d'un homme lent? Réfléchis, mon garçon, réfléchis.
Et il avait raison : Brande avait besoin de réfléchir. Aujourd'hui ne valait pas la peine de se battre, cela ne ferait que prolonger sa marche vers son duel parfait.
Il a fallu un instant à Brande pour éteindre le feu dans son ventre, après ça. Il sourit un peu plus large, un peu plus mince. Pas sincère, mais poli, respectueux.
Dix pièces d'or, hein?
Il a instinctivement laissé sa main soumise glisser dans sa poche, un écho d'un comportement, quelque chose qu'il avait vu faire son père chaque fois qu'il était temps de payer son chemin.
Rien. Brande était un vagabond impitoyable, et les hordes qui lui avaient volé sa vie n'avaient même pas eu la décence de lui laisser un porte-monnaie. Brande était à plat, peut-être irréparablement brisé... mais ses goûts étaient encore riches.
Il prit sa main de sa poche, et toucha à la place dans son sac de messager.
J'ai peur de ne pas avoir le prix, mon homme, il a admis, sa voix douce, régulée, faiblement accentuée par les inflexions de son père, l'héritage familial d'un pays lointain. On aurait même pu penser qu'il était amical, n'était-ce pas pour le contexte tendu.
Mais je peux vous offrir un bon moment qui vaut plus, et va botter moins, si vous vous pensez un homme de raffinement.
Le geste lui a fait mal, en lui arrachant les doigts le long de son sac, de maigres contenus jusqu'à ce qu'il sente la texture rugueuse d'une feuille dorée, pliée avec amour.
Guéri pendant des années sur une rive étrangère, ensoleillée, et portée à la main par des doigts délicats et bronzés. Aussi épaisse que large goulots de bouteille, et emballée de façon dense.
Brande a retiré deux cigares, deux sur cinq. Ils étaient les plus proches qu'il ait jamais eu un héritage, sans être remarqués par les maraudeurs qui ont saccagé sa maison, dans le tiroir de la coque brûlée qui était autrefois son bureau de père. Il en fumait un à chaque anniversaire du feu, il avait l'air ironique mais approprié, mais bientôt il serait sorti.
Il n'était pas sûr de la valeur qu'ils valaient: seulement que la qualité du tabac seul a fait dix pièces d'or semble pitance à un fumeur intelligent.
Il en jettera même un pour votre ami là-bas, il l'offrit, les tenant tous les deux, Que dites-vous, amico, que les bygones soient bygones?
"Ou donnez-moi l'excuse d'allumer une allumette."
Name: Brande Ashbell, "The Vagabond Prince."
Element: Fire/Heat
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Appearance: Standing at 6'2", with broad, powerful shoulders and an equally powerful gait, Brande Ashbell has spent his life working towards what he perceives to be his profession's perfection. He is toned, but not particularly muscular, and light on his feet: his physique is tailored for quick combat, after all. His features are bold and angular, his cheekbones defined and his jaw pointed, and the same is true of his hair: a finely trimmed, blonde ducktail beard-and-moustache, tailored to a point, and a head of flaxen hair, combed meticulously back. His eyes are cool, and grey, a familial trait for which the Ashbell family were named.
In terms of outfit, Brande wears a banded, tanned leather cuirass, and a pair of complimentary leather wrist braces, over a black ruffled shirt.
A set of similar leather grieves compliment the ensemble, as does a sterling, silver rapier, which hangs from his belt. His pants are made of a light, baggy material to enable quick lunging movements. When travelling, he conceals most of this beneath a long, black cloak which he binds with a long, copper-coloured thread. On its hind, outlined in silver, a sword faces downwards, its tip piercing an eight-pointed star.
Theme Song:
v=WCaaJPEdAzQ
Nature: Brande is a force of nature, consumed by an obsession to meet and duel his perfect match, driven by his lifelong commitment to live by the sword, and die by the sword. Like his father before him, all Brande aspires to is the final, perfect fight. If you defeat him, his loyalty is yours... if.
He is the eternal showman, and like the element he's come to serve as avatar of, this beautiful flourish is part of what makes him dangerous: a combination of skill and recklessness.
Outside of combat, he's sharp-tongued but good-spirited, and once his loyalty is earned it's banked for life. He's a very friendly, very jovial man... until you draw your sword. In which case, "Are you feelin' lucky, amico?"
Backstory: Brande Ashbell is the son of Fiam Ashbell, who in turn was the son of Aviur Ashbell, one of the last knights to lose his life at Xaviar.
The Ashbells have a grand legacy, of fighting (and tragically, often perishing), in stupendous battles. For as long as their name has been floating around Coake- since the first of them arrived, from a distant, Mediterranean climate- the Ashbells have always been known for their military service, and their ferocity with a blade.
It is a long lived family, proud and- before darkness swept over the land- large. But most of them perished in the war, fighting to the last breath... most of the survivors were only children at the time, and many of them didn't start families. His father was the last Ashbell father
The Ashbell lineage dies with Brande.
But, at least, he will go out with style! Brande is distilled from a long history of swordsmen, all of different styles and disciplines. His father was a saberist, and his grandfather a student of the twin gladius. And Brande among them, a flamboyant disciple of the rapier, as- rarely enough- was his mother before him. The Ashbell were once famous for their massive collection of familial blades, and Esmeralda Ashbell was famous for having married her way into them, when she disarmed Fiam in an honour-based duel and stole his sword and heart in a single parry.
How Brande longs to see that collection again, and his mother along with it.
Brande is a travelling swordsman. Despite his family's past wealth and prowess, he's a rolling stone, and not by choice.
Once, he'd been a wealthy youth, without a care in the world: he'd lived on the family estate, Serifina Heights, an expansive series of luscious courtyards and beautiful, antiquated architecture. It was there his father had taught him the way of the sword. It was an ancient rite of passage, starting when he was seven. To become an Ashbell man, you must pick an Ashbell weapon.
"Pick any blade from my armoury: as an Ashbell, you'll eventually be proficient in them all."
Serifina Heights is gone, now. A burnt ruin that still smoulders lightly in the hotter months. It had been South of Jeorvo, East of the Wisdom Mountains.
For fifty years, his father recounted, no element of darkness had ever stepped foot on Ashbell ground: it was as though they'd been granted clemency.
Five decades, untouched.
It was destroyed in a night. To this day, Brande doesn't know why: but one night mid-Summer, an army garrison descended from The Wisdom Mountains, and decided that Serifina Heights would be their bounty. The Ashbells and their staff, of course, raised arm against them: and had it been a fair sword fight, they might even have won. But when have goblins and orcs ever played fair?
The main chateau had already caught fire before Brande's father had realised he'd never stood a chance. In the final moments before the whole estate went up in flames, Brande was told to run, with only is mother's sword at his side.
Brande never stopped running.
Eleven years have passed, since that day, and the ruins of Serifina Heights are still there. Brande has visited them many times over the years. To meditate, to train. But he hasn't let his past dampen his spirit. Like his father and grandfather before him, his passion is the blade, and with said blade he's still steadily carving his way towards vengeance, and pursuing the glorious final fight his father was denied.
With his family gone, his estate destroyed and his wealth seized, Brande lives his life walking the land, now. Sharpening his skills, and pursuing the fabled "perfect opponent", the battle of his life.
So ill is his fortune, but so unbreakable is his spirit, the people he's passed have even given him a title: The Vagabond Prince.
Over the years, however, Brande's more "classical" approach to sword-fighting has changed, substantially. It as seven years ago, whilst he was camping out under the stars and among the ruins of his old home, that he discovered he had a startling gift.
He'd not long turned seventeen, and had been searching for any remainder of the old sword gallery left un-pillaged: hoping to find even a scrap of his once mighty inheritance. The search was fruitless.
He'd slept very strangely, that night. Most of the details of the dream escape him to this day, but from it he recalls a sudden, deep, agonising heat that had overtaken his body in the night, as though a fire had been struck within.
When he awoke, at first he was startled. But then, a strange peacefulness followed, as the soothing night's breeze assured him all was well. He found he felt a strange kinship with his dwindling campfire, fueled by the burnt beams of his childhood manor. Absentmindedly, dazed still from his vivid imaginings, he'd reached to prod the ashes with his sword: only to find that when he drew the blade back, the fire came with it.
Brande was an elementos. Brande controlled fire.
That was the night he christened his blade, in his mother's name: Esmeralda, the flamelash.
From then on, he took this as a sign that he was to persevere. His inheritance was not a collection of old swords, but instead a weapon all of his own, a flaming point with which to run the unjust through.
Brande has since made it his duty to use his power to the best means he can imagine: finding his perfect opponent. With Esmeralda in hand, he has trekked the land in search of swordsmen who can best him, all the time refining his technique, finely tuning his flaming-sword assault. All the while, dreaming of bigger opponents, better.
Before, he had sought to be the avenging angel of his family: but now he has the flaming blade to play the part, his aspirations have grown. He now wishes to cleave through evil at large, and put his skills to the ultimate test.
Recently, he had another dream, in the same spot he'd learned of his powers, beckoning him Northwards. He left as quickly as he could. Deep down, he knew. This is first step towards his destiny.
Goal(s): To become the greatest swordsman the Ashbell line has ever produced, and carve his way through the forces of evil with his flaming blade, Esmeralda, until he's fought his fated, perfect opponent.
Inventory: 
 One rapier, Esmeralda the Flamelash. When he's near a source of fire, he draws it to this sword's blade.
 A tinder box
 A set of matches
 Handful of cigars (he might be broke, but his tastes are still rich!)
 A shaving kit, complete with straight razor
 One waterskin, slung from the belt
 A messengers bag

Text Colour: Grapefruit (#DC381F)