Position: Aspirant of the Order of the Pendragon
Group: Order of the Pendragon
Resides: Various camps throughout Keswick
Race: Human
“Hard places breed hard people, so they say. Never is this more true than Pontefract. Landlocked, kissing the foothills of the Dragonspine and far away from the safety and wealth of Londinium, we’ve had to carve our place in the world.
Nearly every man in this city calls themselves a Keswick man first and an Albione second; you can barely even take a step into Albion without trespassing in the Greenwood, and we all know someone who was dared to walk in there and never returned. The Hunter doesn’t stray this far North, so you get a lot of stock with Nethras and the Pendragon. Tamed wilds? Companionship? Order? These things keep you breathing.
This is the world our Eddard was born into. Was he always the man of faith we see today? Was he bollocks. Pontefract breeds gangs and militias in place of armies and chaplains, and he was as likely to spit in the eye of the law than draw shield alongside it. He was a kid, a defiant one at that. Did well by his friends, but not what you’d call a good man.
The Fall changed that, as it changed a lot of us. For many, they saw the chance to seize the authority they hated. Londinium was under the sea for all we knew, and none of us held all that much stock for an elven queen when a lot of us had either barely seen an elf or were terrified of them. Those ‘bandits’ didn’t spring out of the void, you know. They’re men and women who think that the Crown has abandoned them, that the Pendragon slumbers.
But for a few, a few like Eddard, they felt the White Breath on them as the land erupted into chaos. If nobody would fight for them, they’d take up arms and be the ones to fight. ‘Time to grow up.’ I remember him saying, before he fought his way out and found one of the refugee camps still scattered about Albion.
These days, I’ve seen him look the pride of Keswick with Pendragon symbols on armour and shield, rubbing shoulders with his Duke like he’s a nobleman himself. But under that armour and incantation is a man, a Pontefract man at that. I can see that glint in his eyes that says his loyalty is earned and not a given. That even the Pendragon throne needs to owe him respect before he bends the knee. He’s on to good things. Hopefully he lives long enough to fulfil them.”
-From reports of Rangers observing Pontefract activity, summer 1116.