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Name: Ambrose Frederick Locke
Age: 36
Gender: Male
Nation/Allegiance: Bern/Whoever he decides is worthiest.
Appearance/Description: Ambrose is tall, weathered from a life spent as a lone mercenary. It's been a hard life, and he's adjusted to it. He's 6'4" and broad-shouldered. His face is fairly square, with a short beard and lots of stubble. A hooked nose, hooded eyes, strong brow, and short-ish black hair complete the look, aside from several facial scars.

He wears a long black tunic, ivory pants, brown boots with steel greaves, a chainmail shirt, a long black coat that reaches his calves, and a steel cuirass. Ambrose also wears a set of steel vambraces, adorned with scratches and scars of years of work as a mercenary. His clothes are faded and worn, but sturdy enough to last for several years before needing replacements. A plain, though heavy, sword of steel adorns his right hip. A heavy cloak for travel covers his shoulders, though typically he keeps his head bared.

Ambrose is something of a cynic, being tired of all the fighting, knowing that it's useless, and automatically dislikes nobility, though not necessarily authority. His concern is the people, and their ways of life, their happiness with it, though he is gruff and grouchy. He likes his work, but unlike some, is not addicted to it. He's up and quit for several months at a time several times before. But always, something comes up, and he's forced back into the business.

Lycia's rulers, for the last year, have pissed him off. He's inclined to agree with the sentiments of the Bernese King.

Ambrose hates his first name, preferring to go by 'Fred' rather than 'Amby' or 'Ambrose.' He also likes to smoke a short pipe when he can.

Ambrose was born thirty-six years ago in Bern, well within the borders and in a town large enough to defend itself. He was raised well, but his father, a captain of the guard, died in defence of the town when Ambrose was ten. His mother cared for him well enough, and as he was raised, both before and after his father's death, both parents told him stories of a mythical group of warriors. They were like his father, but on a much larger scale.

These stories were about the mythical 'Black Fang' assassins, serving the people in their defense against the tyranny of its ruling lords.

Ambrose grew older, and decided to become a warrior in the town guards, as his father was. However, his mother, who in more recent years had begun to drink more heavily, was running up quite a debt. He tried his hand at bounty hunting, and that paid the family bills for a while, but eventually, she did die from alcohol poisoning.

With the death of his mother, eighteen years after his father, Ambrose left his hometown, never once looking back. He struck out on his own, a mercenary for the people... or so he thought at first. His first few years were miserable. He failed seven out of ten jobs, and developed a rather bad reputation for his work. He nearly made his mother's mistake and fell to the drink, but caught himself on the brink. He worked harder, and it began to pay off. His reputation improved, his purse began to have extra coins in it...

But within those years, he lost his naivete about 'helping the people.' He was not Black Fang. Black Fang died more than a hundred years ago. No one even knew where they had once called home. He aimed for the betterment of those he could see, while he was there, before moving on to the next town.

Within the past year, however, rage has increasingly been his mood, upon hearing of Lycia's treachery. He is currently traveling Lycia's territories, trying to better the lives of those he can see, though he has not had much success.