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{{Infobox_character|affilliation=Middle class noble mercenary|name={{PAGENAME}}|caption=caption|relatives=Leonard Stormwind|languages=Elven, English, Gnome|alias=Marc|marital=Forever taken|birthPlace=100 year old Bunny Pasture|deathDate=deathdate|deathPlace=deathplace|species=Human|gender=Male|height=6'4|weight=230|eyes=hazel green}} |
{{Infobox_character|affilliation=Upper-Middle class noble mercenary|name={{PAGENAME}}|caption=caption|relatives=Leonard Stormwind|languages=Elven, English, Gnome|alias=Marc|marital=Forever taken|birthPlace=100 year old Bunny Pasture|deathDate=deathdate|deathPlace=deathplace|species=Human|gender=Male|height=6'4|weight=230|eyes=hazel green}} |
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'''{{PAGENAME}} '''is (Information on your heritage/background/class) |
'''{{PAGENAME}} '''is (Information on your heritage/background/class) |
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Garrett was the first person who ever made him feel free. |
Garrett was the first person who ever made him feel free. |
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=== Garrett at 21 — Marcus at 19 === |
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At twenty-one, Garrett had already grown into the man people expected him to be — broad-shouldered, disciplined, intimidating without trying. Responsibility had been placed on him young and had only grown heavier with time, the way a blacksmith slowly adds weight to a training hammer. |
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And then his father died. |
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It wasn’t sudden — illness had been chewing at the man for months — but death always feels abrupt to the ones who survive it. One day Garrett had a father whose word was law, and the next, he had a house, lands, debts, alliances, and a grieving mother looking at him like he had become every answer she would ever need. |
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He didn’t cry. |
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He didn’t falter. |
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He stepped into the role with the same grim determination he took into everything else. |
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But something changed. |
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Garrett stopped laughing. |
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He stopped lingering in the streets where the local girls fluttered around him. |
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He stopped caring about flirting, play, or praise. |
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All the softness of youth compressed into a single, unbreakable line across his jaw. |
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He didn’t have time for romance — not anymore. |
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He had a household to run. |
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A mother to protect. |
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Tenants depending on him. |
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Servants waiting for instruction. |
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And the shadow of his father’s expectations breathing down his neck. |
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Garrett became a man overnight, and it hardened him. |
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----Marcus, at nineteen, was buckling under his own kind of weight. |
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Lord Matthias Songweaver — stern, iron-spined, impossible to please — fell deathly ill, and the Songweaver estate turned silent in the way homes do when the patriarch is slipping toward death. |
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Rooms felt colder. |
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Voices dropped. |
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Servants moved like ghosts. |
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Expectation thickened like smoke. |
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Marcus, always the overlooked son, suddenly found eyes on him — calculating, assessing, waiting to see if he would rise to the moment or crumble under it. |
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He wasn’t ready. |
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He never had been. |
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His brothers were established, occupied, and emotionally distant from the crisis. Marcus was the one still drifting, still “finding himself,” still failing to fit the mold carved for him before birth. |
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And now the man who defined that mold was dying. |
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Marcus visited his father’s bedside daily, sitting quietly, unsure whether to speak — and unsure whether his father had ever wanted to hear him in the first place. |
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Responsibility did not fit him easily. |
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It pressed. |
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It constricted. |
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It made him feel like a man drowning in obligation he had never asked for. |
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Where Garrett grew harder, Marcus grew quieter. |
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They were two young men standing on the same threshold of adulthood — |
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both burdened, |
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both grieving, |
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both watching the fathers who shaped them disappear before they were ready. |
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For a brief moment in those years, their lives ran parallel again — |
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not as rivals, |
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not as brothers, |
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but as sons |
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learning how devastating it is |
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when the men you needed to understand you |
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begin fading away. |
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== Physical Appearance == |
== Physical Appearance == |
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Revision as of 03:33, 3 December 2025
| Relatives | Leonard Stormwind |
|---|---|
| Languages | Elven, English, Gnome |
| Affiliations | Upper-Middle class noble mercenary |
| Aliases | Marc |
| Marital Status | Forever taken |
| Place of Birth | 100 year old Bunny Pasture |
| Date of Death | deathdate |
| Place of Death | deathplace |
| Species | Human |
| Gender | Male |
| Height | 6'4 |
| Weight | 230 |
| Eye Color | hazel green |
Marcus Valebright is (Information on your heritage/background/class)
The Man Built for Everything Except Joy
Marcus Valebright was born into a world where expectations were carved in stone long before he existed.
The Valebright name commanded respect, demanded obedience, and offered very little in return. Marcus was the youngest son of a house where duty was a religion, affection was a rumor, and lineage was a cage no one acknowledged as such.
His mother treated children as proofs of competence.
His father treated them as assets.
His brothers took their roles like fitted armor, each settling into a predetermined path that left Marcus the only one without a script.
He was educated thoroughly, but loved sparingly.
Gifted resources, but denied purpose.
Given freedom, but never direction.
Which meant the young nobleman grew into a man filled with all the worst kinds of hunger:
the hunger to understand,
to belong,
to matter.
He studied philosophy because he wanted truth.
He questioned tradition because he wanted meaning.
He craved connection because — in a home filled with people — he had never once felt seen.
Nothing in his life changed until he was thirty-two.
And nothing about his life ever recovered from what happened next.
The Golden Years
Ages 12 & 10
Garrett began training for military life — the kind that shapes boys into blades.
He thrived.
He liked structure, enjoyed the praise.
Marcus thrived only in the library.
He studied philosophy while the others studied sword forms.
He asked “why” while the others asked “who do we fight?”
Garrett found Marcus strange.
Marcus found Garrett exhausting.
But something unspoken connected them:
they were both boys trying to earn affection in houses that saw children as investments.
Garrett respected Marcus’s stubbornness.
Marcus respected Garrett’s discipline.
They would never say it out loud.
Ages 16 & 18
Trouble started because Garrett hit eighteen and suddenly decided he was a man of the world—or at least a man who deserved bad ale in questionable establishments.
“It’s not even a real tavern,” Marcus muttered as they walked toward the Broken Spoke. “It’s where farmhands go to pickle themselves.”
Garrett grinned, the grin that always signaled “danger, chaos, or both.”
“Exactly. No one important goes there. Which is why we should.”
Marcus wasn’t boring, but cautious people get miscast that way all the time. And Garrett had a gift for making caution feel like cowardice. So Marcus followed.
Inside, the Broken Spoke looked like it had given up decades ago and was still open out of habit. Half the chairs were wobbling through their last days. The air smelled like sweat, damp wood, and regret.
Perfect.
Garrett ordered ale with the swagger of somebody who’d practiced confidence more than sobriety. The barkeep judged them with the accuracy of a woman who’d seen every kind of fool.
“Don’t start fights,” she said.
They promised nothing.
Three drinks later, Garrett was louder, Marcus was lighter, and a drunk farmhand decided to identify Marcus as “that little lordling from Thornhaven.”
Marcus froze.
Garrett did not.
“He’s humble,” Garrett cut in. “Ridiculously humble. It’s almost disappointing.”
The farmhand disagreed. With a fist.
Chaos bloomed like spring.
Garrett ducked. Someone else got punched. A mug flew. The barkeep shouted something that sounded like a threat and a prayer.
“Run!” Garrett laughed, pulling Marcus toward the door.
They ran like idiots. Laughing, breathless, alive.
When they collapsed against the mill wall outside town, Garrett wheezed, “Tell me that wasn’t incredible.”
“That was the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” Marcus replied—laughing, glowing with adrenaline.
And that was the moment Marcus realized:
Garrett was the first person who ever made him feel free.
Garrett at 21 — Marcus at 19
At twenty-one, Garrett had already grown into the man people expected him to be — broad-shouldered, disciplined, intimidating without trying. Responsibility had been placed on him young and had only grown heavier with time, the way a blacksmith slowly adds weight to a training hammer.
And then his father died.
It wasn’t sudden — illness had been chewing at the man for months — but death always feels abrupt to the ones who survive it. One day Garrett had a father whose word was law, and the next, he had a house, lands, debts, alliances, and a grieving mother looking at him like he had become every answer she would ever need.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t falter.
He stepped into the role with the same grim determination he took into everything else.
But something changed.
Garrett stopped laughing.
He stopped lingering in the streets where the local girls fluttered around him.
He stopped caring about flirting, play, or praise.
All the softness of youth compressed into a single, unbreakable line across his jaw.
He didn’t have time for romance — not anymore.
He had a household to run.
A mother to protect.
Tenants depending on him.
Servants waiting for instruction.
And the shadow of his father’s expectations breathing down his neck.
Garrett became a man overnight, and it hardened him.
Marcus, at nineteen, was buckling under his own kind of weight.
Lord Matthias Songweaver — stern, iron-spined, impossible to please — fell deathly ill, and the Songweaver estate turned silent in the way homes do when the patriarch is slipping toward death.
Rooms felt colder.
Voices dropped.
Servants moved like ghosts.
Expectation thickened like smoke.
Marcus, always the overlooked son, suddenly found eyes on him — calculating, assessing, waiting to see if he would rise to the moment or crumble under it.
He wasn’t ready.
He never had been.
His brothers were established, occupied, and emotionally distant from the crisis. Marcus was the one still drifting, still “finding himself,” still failing to fit the mold carved for him before birth.
And now the man who defined that mold was dying.
Marcus visited his father’s bedside daily, sitting quietly, unsure whether to speak — and unsure whether his father had ever wanted to hear him in the first place.
Responsibility did not fit him easily.
It pressed.
It constricted.
It made him feel like a man drowning in obligation he had never asked for.
Where Garrett grew harder, Marcus grew quieter.
They were two young men standing on the same threshold of adulthood —
both burdened,
both grieving,
both watching the fathers who shaped them disappear before they were ready.
For a brief moment in those years, their lives ran parallel again —
not as rivals,
not as brothers,
but as sons
learning how devastating it is
when the men you needed to understand you
begin fading away.
Physical Appearance
Describe your appearance. Eye color, height, weight, hair color, particular clothing items, scars, tattoos, etc.
Personality
Is your character social? A drunk? Laid back?
History
A brief history of your character's life.
Languages
Examples include Common, Elvish, TwitchTalk, Thieves Cant, or French
Powers and Abilities
You don't have to give it all away. Just let us know what you're known to do in battle.
Attacks and Weapons
Your favorite weapons.