Hellard Byzenkampf's page

"I assure you, sir, that should we spend another day covered in rotting zombie offal, the already shaky solidarity of our squad should be totally rent asunder -- none of us would be able to tolerare the smell of any of the others!"

"Ah, at last, a bath, a change of clothes, and some worthwhile weapons! Sorry, old chap," to Riven, "but a half-hour hardly seems adequate; I need to get all the way home and back as well... would an hour and a half be too long?"

Stretching to relieve a cramp, Hellard looks at Hague and especially Lily. "If anyone else would like a proper bath and some decent clothes, you would be most welcome to accompany me."

Speaking of which, have I managed to bathe, change clothes, and fetch my swords yet? Or can I send someone to get them? (Where's Wurzel when you need him...). I didn't want to be hauling bastard swords into Parliament, but now I'm really starting to feel naked without them... Especially because almost everyone I've tried to charm with my superior charisma now wants me dead!

It doesn't take a Perception roll to see that Hellard's admiration for Pariah, obvious enough to begin with, has just ramped up through the ceiling. "Maybe we all picked the wrong leader," he mumbles under his breath. He grins openly -- despite the fact that she's stepped on his exit line and rather made him look like a mook in that regard -- as if this is the most fun he's had all year. Maybe it is; you have no idea what the nobility do to try and amuse themselves.

Ha! Ninja'd you by under a minute, Fatey!

Are we clear?"

Hellard obviously can't resist an opening like that. In your brief acquiantance, you've known him to be consistently supercilious and often annoying, but for the most part well-intentioned.

Looking the commander straight in the eye, he says, "Just one question. Is it OK if I smirk at you, just a little, when I'm sure no one's looking?"

Itonically? As in, in an un-musical fashion?

"ironically," as in a 1-letter typo, not as in "atonally" somehow warped into a whole new word. "Obviously," Hellard thinks, "this man is a priest, not a linguist or a composer!"

The big noble looks at the bellowing Commander with amused contempt. "My name is Hellard Byzenkampf; perhaps you know of my father?" He lets the unspoken implications sink in, then continues, "May I present Sergeant Brother Thomas von Mandelbrot, duly appointed leader of the Hellsquad -- of which I am, incidently, a member. I assume you will extend him every courtesy." Hellard bows itonically, then steps back a bit, giving Brother Thomas the position square in front of the Commander.

Have I had time to get some weapons and a change of clothes yet, if not a bath? If not, I may rebel.

The noble affects a breezy tone, but you can tell he's a bit annoyed. "Well, in sheer point of fact, we are all agreed but me, but of course I'll abide by your decision."

[/ooc]I'd guess Hellard is angling for Hague so he can make 'suggestions' without having to take any of the responsibility...:)[/ooc]

Your Wis is high enough to realize he would have liked to be the leader in name, but felt compelled to nominate someone else out of a sense of fairness and noblesse oblige.

"Well, it would seem we're fairly well set. I'll say only this: with great respect to Brother Thomas, a man with knowledge can advise any good leader. But when blood is flying, a fighting-man is oftimes better than a scholar, when it comes to calling orders and making split-second decisions."

Roll a Sense Motive check, if you like, to see if there's anything else behind what he's saying; the Bluff check is 19 (17 + 2 Cha + 0 ranks).

"Breyr? What do you say?
Whomever is appointed leader, every man and woman will still be heard--I'll guarantee that personally."

"Breyr? Darius? Who would you prefer to follow, when the chips are down and the zombies are clawing?"

"Naturally, Master Zelluyan, we'll be most grateful for the benefit of your great wisdom."

As for internal command, that's up to you.

The big noble clears his throat; everyone is fairly certain he's about to make a pompous, bombastic delaration about the "obviousness" of appointing him leader. But it seems that maybe there's a bit more going on beneath the bluff exterior than just counting his wealth.

"Regarding internal command," he begins, eliciting sharp looks. "If I may, I'd like to nominate this fellow Hague here. We've all seen that his bravery is totally beyond question, and he seems to me to have no lack of perceptiveness or ability, or so it would seem. Certainly, Brother Thomas would advise him closely regarding the perils we face... Naturally, outside of the Squad, I'll still be a member of the Quality, and not him, but for purposes of Squad business, I should like to see him in command. Anyone else in favor?"

I say! Mayor, old chap -- do be a good fellow and have the, uh, shepherd removed from the premises... surely he has more important things to do, like cleaning the droppings from his boots. Or perhaps there's a ewe he'd like to tup? I have no idea what these lowborn fellows do for amusement.

And as for a "satyr," don't you superstitious peasants realize those are only a myth? Why, they're no more real than zombies!

Sorry -- avatar error -- don't kill my player, Snorter!

"Master Zelluyan," the big noble says, quickly starting to help with the scrolls, then stopping when he realizes that wiping his hands on his clothes does nothing to make them any cleaner. The young nobleman chuckles, to hide his embarrassment at the state of his cleanliness. "Would that I'd paid better attention to your lectures, sir, for today's exercise for a moment almost seemed as if it might become dicey!" He adds, as an afterthought: "Forgive me; I brought no apple for you today."

The old man gives a look which indicates more clearly than words that the big noble has never brought an apple. If indeed he was ever a pupil of this Zelluyan, Hellard was evidently not exactly at the head of the class.

Hellard, unabashed, continues, "Allow me to present these worthies: the large Northerner is Riven; he swings a deadly blade. This enterprising lad is Darius, I believe. Here we have Hague, who may be somewhat in need of a bath, but his bravery is easily ten times as great as his stench, I'll personally attest. This small fellow I believe someone called "Breyr," though he's not yet introduced himself -- a surprise, given the volume of his amusing comments during today's festivities! The lady has given us no name, preferring to be mysterious, as is of course good and proper for a woman of her beauty. And meseems that you may already be acquainted with Brother Thomas?"

Hellard's low Wis means he's still fascinated with Pariah, and his noblesse oblige obliges him to protect her. But his natural bonhomie makes him reluctant to offend the warrior... so he saunters over to the fireplace and pokes the logs with a fireplace poker... keeping it (and his short sword, left nearby) where he can grab them both if needed.

Riven turns his attention to the nobleman, "Then again our Nobleman here has stated he was headed to a meeting, perhaps that was the meeting?"

Hellard nods politely to the others' introductions, obviously trying to set them at ease (high Diplomacy roll, but unksilled Bluff check fails). Noting the others' interest in this 'Hell Squad,' he studies the northern warrior carefully, grinning at the man's innuendo as if they share an inside joke, and replies, "Well, I may never know what that meeting would have brought; it seems to be a 'dead' issue! But really, you have me at a disadvantage. I have no knowledge of any 'Hell Squad,' only the stories that nannies tell to frighten children.

"But then again, if all zombies are as feeble as the ones we just dispensed with," airily waving his teacup, "then it would seem that no special squad should really be needed to deal with them. You alone accounted for... how many of them?

"Pshaw!" he adds. "I nearly think we've a better Hell Squad in this room than anything from the nannies' stories!"

"Well." The big noble actually seems a bit out of sorts; maybe it's the damage to his clothing, or his bedraggled appearance. Certainly he seems to be showing no after-effects of the battle. (Those with experience with wounds know that he's hiding them with some effort, but it's still an impressive performance. Having never before seen nobles fight in the streets, you're uncertain if that's common to nobility, or peculiar to this particular man.)

"I suppose I shall have to speak up here! My name is Hellard, of the House of Byzenkampf. I know nothing of zombies, mind you; I was on my way to a rendezvous elsewhere when this nonsense erupted, and good taste (not to mention the onus of station) prevented me from skirting the issue. No matter.

"What I know is this: those of you in this room comported yourselves far above your apparent stations, and far better than the useless guards, who even now are nowhere to be seen! I cannot raise your estate by myself; a consensus of the Quality is needed for that, and my fellows seem to have missed out on our recent escapade. But I will offer this: I'll speak on your behalfs, and try and look out for you in the future.

"But to do that I need to know who you are...

"m'lady," bowing slightly to Lily, "Would you care to begin?"

"By gad!" Hellard states, sipping the tea with his customary air of disdain. "They could have at least set out brandy! This rambunctious slaying of zombies is thirsty work."

Is there a servant in sight? Or a guard? If so, I demand fresh clothing for me.

Gritting his teeth, Hellard forces himself to ignore the sorry state of his clothes -- although he well knows that this may become a MAJOR issue if the doors open and he's forced to deal with any of other of the Quality -- he'll receive (well-merited) snide comments, and almost certainly be forced into a fatal duel... and killing zombies has left him with little taste to kill any men this day.

The zombie-buried man has been rescued, with mystical assistance from the priest -- but that fool is still screaming for the Parliament doors to be opened, despite the fact that the fight is all but won -- the girl's magic has destroyed rank upon rank of the monstrosities, although it seemed to hurt her grievously to do so.

The Northlander and some of the other commoners-turned-heroes seem tired, but still fighting... and the priest seems to have healed one a bit... Hellard knows he should take command of the mopping-up process, but he is torn; the girl's efforts seem to have left her in bad shape. Helping her to her feet with as much courtliness as he can muster despite the state of his attire, Hellard says quickly, "M'lady, your assistance has saved all these folk in the square. As a token of my indebtedness and respect, I give you my name: Hellard of House Byzenkampf, and I give you leave to call upon me as an equal henceforth. This is not lightly done. If you need further assistance, I shall give it. If not, give me your leave to go, and I'll lead the last bit of fighting left against these undead vermin."

By the way; who is this 'Kirth Gersen' character, who has appeared in the town square? And what has he done with Well'Ard? TIP OF THE DAY: check your ID when posting, kids!

Hellard glares at the sacreligious priest, who would deign tell the gods that control them all their business. Then again, even the gods may become forgetful from time to time, especially those who have never before used avatars such as these.

Hellard almost checks his course at the last minute. Are these fools actually trying to open the Parliament building to commoners? The priest and the small man seem determined to do so. The scruffy little ruffian, well, that could maybe be expected from one of his ilk. But the priest? He should know better!

Then again... there are zombies still moving, and the girl's attention is still turned to the cluster, rather than the bigger picture.

If not for that first, haunting glance of her, Hellard would never have abandoned the dictates of twenty years of gracuious upbringing and hundreds of years of good breeding. But the look on her face... he makes his decision. The Parliament's guards must keep the commoners out, for the time being, all by themselves. If worse comes to worse, surely there are others of the Quality inside who can mitigate matters. They might question, after the fact, whether the zombies out here were indeed as great a menace as Hellard now feels them to be... but if they do, a duel or two will quickly settle that. Certainly, Hellard feels less concern over some sniveling character assassin than he does over the walking dead.

Decision made, he moves quickly to the press around the man he'd nodded to. Not daring to put his hand on the girl's shoulder, he instead puts his head closer to hers, to make sure she hears over the struggle. "I'll take care of this man -- my life on it. But you have got to destroy the other ones still walking free!"

Hellard just hopes he's equal to the task.

Hellard specifically targets zombies grappling Hague, especially ones that seem to actually have him pinned.

I nod to the bedraggled ruffian with the staff -- enough to let him know I wasn't going to cut him down, not enough to encourage vulgar displays of comradery -- and continue towards the lady who had captured my attention. I had to at least know who she was, what her name was.

Vaguely, I was aware that there were more important things I should be doing, but when I had tried to focus on them, a burst of flames or lightning or something had erupted from the woman's hands, like fireworks, or the aurora borealis, and I forgot what I was thinking about again.

No matter. Once she's safe from the zombies, then I can worry about Parliament or whatever. A chap's got to make his own priorities.

How did I end up behind the zombies? -- Wait! Never mind; I see now that those are the commoners behind me -- where they belong.

Crushing the skull of the nearest zombie -- one who wears the livery of the Guard, I note with great foreboding and some contempt as well (what kind of worthless commoner allows himself to become a zombie?!) -- I sieze the guard's short sword with a gleeful shout. "At last, a blade!" While not the fine steel of my hand-and-a-half blade at home, at least this is a proper fighting weapon, not some street-sweeper's broom or a common brawler's chair -- the cobbles were almost too embarrassing to use. Hewing with renewed fervor, I notice that the ox-herder (or whatever he was) is down -- have to remember to send some silver to his family, maybe make some sort of speech. I remain back to back with some other varlet, one who, again, deserves respect for his doings this day. He'd make a far better guardsman than the one whose sword I now wield -- maybe I can get him that job, if he survives this, and wants it.

Social obligations filed away, I keep fighting. Wounded, I'm not yet exhausted, although I should be -- all that time spent swimming in the river must be good for one's wind.

I notice that the heroes from the marketplace include some kind of Northern warrior, slashing away with a will; he seems to have some sort of grimy varlet with him, who cleverly uses a cudgel to create openings for the northerner. A priest of some kind has come to the aid of my ox-herd friend -- hope he's not too late! -- and a small, agile man foolishly attacks with daggers -- I shout to him that daggers are useless against these zombies, but I'm not sure if he hears me over the tumult.

Some of the zombies have gone berserk, and are destroying one another.

Then I look past them, and my heart stops in my throat. A small, dark-haired girl stands behind the zombies, half-hidden from the carnage. Something in her face -- tragic, some massive sorrow -- makes me forget the Parliament building, and my status, and the even need to chastize the guards for allowing their idiot members to become undead. Suddenly, I can think of nothing else. The rain runs into my eyes, heedless. Only the flailing of a zombie snaps me from my reverie; with a renewed surge of energy, I begin to slash my way towards the girl, cutting down the walking corpse, as I will anything else in my way.

I stagger to my feet, helped up by this ox-drover, or whatever he may be, who so valiantly overcame the sloth and timidity of his base heritage. Obviously, the blood of the Quality must run in his veins -- otherwise he could never have done what he did -- a by-blow of some tryst with a common wench, perhaps? I don't know, but surely he merits consideration -- as a companion, if not as an equal. I look him in the eye and clasp his arm, briefly, as a cry rings out: "Ware! More come!"

A shambling horde of the monstrosities is advancing on the Parliament building, pursued by a small number of enraged not-quite-commoners -- people like this one who aided me, perhaps. Better than the norm. Out of the whole marketplace, only these few would fight -- no wonder this city has so many commoners, and so few of the Quality, and no one in between. But even with help from these people, I am nigh-unarmed... the dagger useless against the undead, and the lantern's oil spilled on the cobbles and too diluted by the rain to burn. My fists cannot be of much use against these things if a dagger would not bite them. My swords, back in my manor, might as well be on the moon. Fatalistically, I shrug, and pick up a large, heavy chunk of cobblestone in each hand. Muddy and armed with peasant's weapons -- like a commoner myself -- I'll still hold my head up and comport myself as befits my status.

As the first of the zombies approaches, I leap forward and smash it with both stones. And I notice, with something like amazement, that the pursuers from the marketplace have caught up with them, and are exacting a heavy toll.

** spoiler omitted **

Awesome!

Oh, for the gods' sake! Having come stealing through the night like a common criminal to the House of Parliament, only to have my way blocked by guards who think me one with this rabble... obviously, my mother's injunction regarding clean boots was accurate. I sigh. Snatching my lantern back from one of the cowering guards, I swallow my annoyance at not being admitted at once--obviously, to do so would be to admit this mob as well, hardly acceptable!--and I light the lamp, allowing the glow to illuminate my face and clothing.

"Disperse, good folk!" I boom, in as commanding a voice as I've ever used. And, having heard moaning about zombies, I added, "I shall personally destroy any zombie I see... you have the word of one of the Quality on that!" And I almost think they would have obeyed me at once, except that some inconsiderate lout dared take this moment to press upon them from behind.

"You!" I cry. "How dare you annoy these folk, especially given their ills, which they have brought to me for redress?" The shape refuses to respond--a cowardly churl, no doubt!--and I resolve to teach him his place quickly, be he human, undead, or other. This is more pressing than rumored zombies; one who slights against the Quality is an enemy of civilization. Drawing my dagger, and letting the lantern swing ominously in my off-hand, I advance through the mob towards that black shape. The commoners part before me, the ones further away shrieking and trying to flee the area entirely now.

"Your rent earns you goodwill, decent folk," I explain. "You came here for protection? Well, protection you shall have... first against this fool, and then against all zombies!" And then I'm on that dark shape, in a scything, flaming arc of the lantern and a swift cut from the dagger. This lesson will prove a more difficult one to teach than I had envisioned, however...

I turn to the servants, trustworthy men, all, whom I've known since childhood. "Broggo, an important task for you, my good friend. Please attend to this man. See to his medical needs. He may be babbling with fever; ignore his ravings, but make sure he gets well.
"Jonas -- fetch my cloak, and a lantern. No, no... no need to awaken Merrise; feed her breakfast in the morning, and mention that I'll call on her some time in the future... no, I actually don't know when... well, just make something up that sounds polite. Maybe send some roses. Or a bracelet. No... best you don't know where I'm off to. Indeed, get an extra cloak and lantern, and have Fredo take the cart out the west road; make him hunch up and try to look like me. This sort of thing will amuse him."

Stealing through the streets of Refuge in the rain, lantern unlit, dodging into pools of shadow... I take a roundabout route, and keep an eye out for watchers. Yes, I'll arrive with mud on my boots... so be it. Mother would never forgive me for saying so out loud, but there are some things more pressing even than appearance and protocol. Or maybe not! What kind of civilized man walks into Parliament with mud on his boots? Hopefully I can find a servant in the building to shine them, before I'm brought before others of the Quality, who might think less of me.

No way to bring a sword into the official chambers, of course, but the fine steel dagger in my jerkin is a comfort on this night. Just hope it doesn't ruin the line of my cravat. "Living dead" might be hyperbole, wild raving, or pure truth, but I figure a dagger will take care of any of those.

I pass some sort of ruckus on the way, but assume it's some sort of riot or brawl or other vulgar activity that the Watch will attend to... those baseborn fools can deal with their own kind.

The guards out front eye me suspiciously as I step out from the shadows and approach the gate. I throw back my cloak, hand my lantern to the nearest without a word, nod to his partner, and walk on by, saying "Official business, chaps. You know. Duty can't wait, Gods save the Quality. Toilets are probably stopped up again."

One issue that may come up is that I occasionally need to travel for work, so there might be, for example, a week in July when I have no access to a computer. If that occurs, I have no problem with Grim or Fate playing Hellard temporarily -- as long as they promise not to get him killed off too quickly!

STR 15 - Hellard is the happy recipient of good nutrition (as befits a wealthy kid), plenty of exercise (in his family hunting preserve) and a naturally large frame.

DEX 12 - Genteel sports (polo, skeet with crossbows) and archery (while hunting) have helped a bit here.

CON 15 - Hellard is known for his glowing health and near-limitless energy. The idea of him falling ill, or so much as having a bout of depression, is laughed at. He can outdrink many of his friends, party all night and then get up the next morning for classes, and otherwise push himself without breaking much of a sweat; at 4th level I'll probably bump this by +1.

INT 12 - Hellard is brighter than he sometimes lets on, although he spent more time ogling girls in class than actually paying attention to his lessons. This is a secret regret, now that he has decided there's more to life than just enjoying the benefits of inherited wealth.

WIS 8 - Growing up with wealth, Hellard was rather spoiled; he's used to getting whatever he wants, and it's difficult for him to accept that life just isn't that way. Told by his parents that popularity in society was a key virtue, he unfortunately spends so much effort trying to be affable that he fails to accurately read people in turn. He rarely plans ahead, preferring action to guile, has very little patience, and his imagination is rather limited. When engaged in serious business, it's easy for him to become distrated by a girl... especially if she's dark-haired and sad-looking, in which case he's a total sap.

CHA 15 - The amount of effort Hellard puts into comradery is quite impressive. He always smiles, claps people on the back, tries to remember their names (which is difficult for him), offers them a drink (and tries to remember what they prefer... again, a difficult task for him), a cigar, tickets to the theatre. He makes it a point to include others in his sports, even if everyone else finds them a total bore, and cheers them even if they are inept.

Seemingly, he'd be an ideal leader...

Thanks, Paladin! I've dropped his age a bit and lowered his level by 1 to account for his relative inexperience in serious stuff. If you can tell me more about the Quality, that would be a help; I lack the source article you referred to. Other than that, I'm very much looking forward to starting!

My stance is that Hellard would not want it widely known that he's a member, assumung that he'd be more effective incognito. So there will be some negotiation and mutual feeling about, as far as signing him up for the Squad. Indeed, he'd have to fail a Bluff check for anyone to guess his real interest... probably not too hard, given the Sense Motive that a senior member of the Quality would likely have!

OK -- Here goes.

Hellard was born into a moneyed family, and grew up spending more time in their hunting preserve outside the city than in his own home town. His birth has given him entree into the society of the city, however, and it pained him to learn -- gradually, through pieced-together hints -- that all is not well, that forces from beyond sanity could threaten eveything he used to take for granted. It scares him even more to suspect that some of those he likes or even admires in society might even be in league with such forces...

Hellard is an athletically-built redhead, hale and hearty, always with a slap on the back and a glass of wine. He maintains the pose of a clueless spoiled rich young man, even while he seeks more solid knowledge about the dark hints he'd surmised. One day, with that knowledge in hand, he hopes to act.

----

If this will work, please count me in! If not, no hard feelings.