About Franz Flechter
Pistolier / Basic Human
Characteristics and similar items:
Wound Threshold: 12 - Wounds: none
Fortune Points: 3
Adaptable - Career transitions cost one less, may reduce to zero.
Weapons, Armour, and Equipment:
Name: Pistol Damage:6, Critical:2, Range:Close, Special: Pierce 1, Reload, Unreliable 2 - ignore one soak of armour, Requires reload manuveour, Roll
Name:Rapier Damage:5, Critical:3, Range:N/A Special: Fast, Actions with this weapon gain - for one boon place one less recharge on card. Enc:3
Name:Dagger Damage:4, Critical:3, Range:N/A Special: Fast, Actions with this weapon gain - for one boon place one less recharge on card. Enc:2
Name: Damage: Critical: Range: Special:
Insanities,Critical Wounds, any long lasting conditions, Adversaries:
Money - rich and broke.
1 Conservative / 3 Reckless
Experience, Rank, Career Advances:
Background: Born the seventh son of a seven son. Great-Grandfather is a very old minor baron with an estate near Altdorf. His mother is related to Lord Ricard Aschaffenberg (Sister, cousin, whatever works for the GM). Franz has been invited to see the new hunting lodge his "Uncle" has aquired. The trip is a reward to Franz for his graduation from a Pistolkorps. Seeing Franz is out of shot, Uncle Ricard gives him some,telling him to be careful, beastmen destroyed a village recently. Franz is at the bottom of the nobility about to fall off entirely; needs money and a respectable position.
Limitation: Has no money, armour, or horse. Needs all three to get a calvary slot and start his military career. Rich in status, broke in funds.
GM - Q and A:
Franz enters the room where the final exam takes place, the one on character. He knows he did well enough on the studies, though he still rides like a sack of potatoes, according to the riding master.
The elderly lord, still looking strong in his ceremonial armour, headmaster of the Heavenfall Pistolkorp's academy, looks sternly at the young cadet. He thunders, "Do you think you are worthy to be called a Pistolier of the Empire?" In a firm voice, Franz replies, "I do, my Lord Headmaster."
The headmaster smiles coldly, "We shall see. What do you want, boy? How do you see your future?" Franz says, "To do honour to my families' name. In light of the fact my family has more sons than gold, I will win, honourably, my armour, and mounts, and someday the silver spurs of knighthood." The headmaster looks bored, "Typical answer, dull as you are."
The elder continues, "The gods, who do you worship and why?" Franz answers, "The god of the Empire, Sigmar, I hold dearest to my heart and give proper respect to all the gods. Not Renald, of course, no real god would encourage disrespect for the right and just nobility, raising defiance from the smallfolk." The Lord looks indifferent to Franz, and goes on.
"What do you know of Chaos and these reports of Skaven?" Franz looks confused as he replies, "Chaos is the enemy of all, seductive and relentless, it must be opposed with heart and fire at all costs. The rumours of Skaven, are just ignorant peasants seeing some beastman with big teeth and screaming of an army of evil coming to get them, as though they'd be bothered. Nonsense."
The questions come quickly now, "What do you think of our Imperial allies: the elves and dwarves?" Franz thinks for a second, "I've barely met elves, I saw one at The Baron's court, he seemed haughty to me but what the crown has decreed is the law, they are allies." Franz smiles, "The Dwarves, since the days of Sigmar, have been our most stalwart allies, strong and fierce, a rock we need."
"Magic, what do you think of it?" Franz makes the Sign of the Hammer. "Dangerous - messing around with Chaos, burn the lot, of course some wizards are protected by the Empire's decrees, that must be obeyed." The lord asks, "And of priests? Franz looks shocked, "Priests don't do foul magic; the gods hear the prayers of their priests and send their blessings." Franz is very upset at the thought of priestly virtue being reduced to chaos or parlour tricks.
"Who are your friends?" Franz smiles, "I have a number about but they'll now be moving on as I will, I do thank Grimmbeard Stoutanvil for his friendship, he encouragment got me through his tough riding course, even though I don't meet his high standards; It's amazing to see a master cavalier, that is of the people of the mountains, hired here, I'm sure, to inspire us to do better."
"Your enemies, then." Franz considers, "I don't think I've made any real enemies, most people tend to like me. I guess Gustav Brune still dislikes me for breaking his nose, but it was a fair fight." The Headmaster snorts, "Over the attentions of a woman, not the behavior we expect from our cadets."
"What do you treasure in objects, places, people; where and how did you grow up to bring those affections and how do the shape you today?" Franz ponders, "I'm the seventh son of a seventh son, I guess I've always been lucky, I have no objects that mean more to me than they would to any other, the home I was raised in is, of course, close to my heart. What I treasure most is my family, I have many brothers, dozens of first cousins and nephews and nieces, hundreds of slightly more distant cousins and of course, The Baron, my great-grandfather, as old as the sky, straight and strong. To honour them, to add more to the family legacy than longevity and progeny. The quiet country estate that the Aschaffenbergs gave as my mother's dowry is a great source of fond memories. My father's labours as an manager of our estate and others, and the work he's done in many offices, taught me the importance of duty, lessions I'll always have with me."
The old man rises, "Flattery isn't needed, you're much like the others, young and headstrong, but so are most of our graduates, you pass, here's your ring, do not dishonour it or me. Depart here - cadet no more, leave as a Pistolier of the Empire." Franz bows formally, "Thank you, for all you've done for me, Great-Great Uncle, be well." Franz withdraws, with courtly grace. The younger brother of The Baron, turns to the next file, to summon another young man to terrorize and graduate, with eight decades of life's experience to draw on.
Appearance: At the studio of the least expensive portrait artist with acceptable reputation, stands a man having his image painted, a gift of his Uncle to the man's mother. A young, rounded, tanned face is topped by a broad, fashionable, scarlet chapeau that vainly tries to corral the luxurious black curly locks that fall down beside his clean-shaven cheeks. A maroon military jacket of the finest cloth clads his chest, his right hand holding a pistol across the chest, his left a rapier, across the waist. Black hose and riding boots, are out of the paintings frame but complete the image of new minted Pistolier.