Katai Fellowship

 

Characters

 Imperial Noble – Filippo Biancardi of Gaibanella       

Longswordsman – Johannes Liechenauer

Albion Druid Ogham Runemaster –    Baldrick the Cunning

Lord of Anaerion - Mahu Lazarescu

Outlaw Sworsdman and Bowman – Mad Jack Churchill

Imperial Noble - Filippo Biancardi de Gaibanella

Born the fourth son to Duke Alessandro Malatesta ruler of the verdant and culturally refined Duchy of Gaibanella, Filippo was never destined for the throne — and he’s always found that quite agreeable. While his elder brothers bickered over succession rights and military command, Filippo immersed himself in the more civilized pleasures of life: gastronomy, viniculture, fashion, and philosophy.

The Duchy of Gaibanella lies nestled between lush vineyards, sapphire rivers, and ancient stone towns. The Biancardi family is renowned not only for its noble blood but also for its centuries-old patronage of art, architecture, and refinement. Filippo, ever the gentle soul, inherited a love of culture rather than conquest.

He was tutored in classical literature, courtly etiquette, and arcane history, and he developed a near-legendary palate for wine and an obsession with tailored boots and slippers. Among court circles, he's as well known for his sparkling dinner conversations as for his vibrant collection of custom-made footwear — his “lucky red boots” are said to have once saved him from an amorous dryad and a jealous river god on the same evening.

But Filippo is not all silk and seasoning. His kind heart, genuine empathy, and unshakable loyalty have made him beloved among servants and peasants alike — a rare thing in Imperial nobility. Seeing the suffering of commoners during a regional famine (caused in part by his family's political manoeuvring), Filippo began to question the purpose of his privileged existence.

One fateful spring, after a fierce quarrel with his eldest brother — now heir to the duchy — Filippo left court life behind. He claimed it was a journey to "expand his appreciation for regional cuisine," but those closest to him know he seeks something deeper: justice, redemption, and perhaps his own legend beyond the velvet confines of nobility.

Now he travels the lands, always well-dressed, often well-fed, and eternally courteous — yet wielding a keen wit, subtle magical talents (if applicable to your world), and a surprising talent with the rapier. Where others see a foppish noble, those who fight beside him come to understand: Filippo Biancardi is a lion in lamb’s clothing.

Longswordsman: Johannes Liechenauer

Few names stir respect — or fear — like that of Johannes Liechenauer, the Master Long-swordsman whose very stance can silence a room and whose blade sings poetry in battle. Born in the steel-shrouded streets of Drachenhall, a city famous for its duellists, bladesmiths, and mercenary academies, Johannes was the son of a cobbler and a laundress — a commoner with uncommon talent.

From the age of nine, Johannes would sneak into the training yards of the great fencing schools, mimicking the footwork and flourishes of the noble born students with uncanny precision. He was discovered by Ser Halbrecht von Torren, a disgraced knight turned instructor, who saw in Johannes a natural gift — and a hunger for greatness.

By eighteen, Johannes had fought and won thirty-seven duels, including one against a royal cadet that forced him into exile from Drachenhall. He travelled east to the Crimson Marches, where he honed his style through bloodsport and battlefield. There, he joined the Scarlet Order, an elite company of duellists-for-hire known for their unbreakable contracts and crimson cloaks. It was among them that Johannes earned his title as a “Master Long-swordsman” — a rank awarded only after defeating five Masters in formal combat.

Though a warrior, Johannes is no brute. He is a stylist, a connoisseur of form and flourish. He speaks of combat as one would of dance, and to him, every duel is a performance: elegant, efficient, and final. His armour is always polished, his clothing immaculately tailored, and his longsword — “Dämmerstich” (Twilight Thrust) — never dull.

Beneath the veneer of style, however, lies a man haunted by unfinished business. Rumours whisper of a betrayal — a student he trained who vanished with forbidden techniques, or perhaps a noble he once spared who later razed a village. Johannes never speaks of it. But he sharpens his blade a little longer at night.

Now, he walks the land as a sell-sword of reputation and mystery, choosing his contracts carefully, refusing to kill for coin alone, and always seeking that perfect fight — the one that will test his art against true destiny.

Albion Druid Ogham Runemaster: Baldrick the Cunning

 In the mist-veiled reaches of Albion, where standing stones whisper secrets to the wind and crows speak in riddles, there dwells a man who is either a genius in disguise or a fool with uncanny luck. His name is Baldrick the Cunning, a title he insists on, despite general debate over which part — “the” or “cunning” — is more questionable.

Born under a wolf moon, in a peat-thatch cottage surrounded by blackthorn and bog, Baldrick was marked from birth by the druids of the Circle of Stones as “touched.” He could hear the voices of animals before he could speak the common tongue, and by the age of five, had befriended a hedgehog he insisted was his familiar (and legal counsel).

Unlike the stoic, sombre druids of Albion, Baldrick has always had an odd spark about him — clever, yes, but also deeply unconventional. Rather than recite spells in solemn Old Tongue chants, he etches Ogham runes into turnips, tree bark, or occasionally, his own socks. His plans are often madcap, overly elaborate, and full of holes… but often, they work — much to everyone's confusion, including his own.

He rose through the druidic ranks not by might or wisdom, but by accident and animal assistance. He once brokered peace between rival bear clans, convinced a kelpie to teach him river magic, and led an angry goose militia against an encroaching war band. To this day, he is known in some forests as "Baldrick Feather-Friend," "Plan-Speaker," or simply "The Turnip Druid."

But Baldrick isn’t just comic relief — beneath the tangled beard, bird-nest hair, and moth-nibbled robes lies a mind that thinks sideways, sees patterns others miss, and deciphers the deeper meaning hidden in nature’s chaos. His Ogham runes, often dismissed as gibberish, can sometimes unlock forces older than the stones themselves.

Now, Baldrick travels beyond the Hollow Moors, drawn by visions carved into tree rings and owl dreams. He seeks ancient druidic lore lost since the Time of the Split Stone, and perhaps a prophecy he misread (or accidentally started). With a raven on his shoulder and a marmot in his pack, he approaches every challenge with his signature grin and the fateful words:

“I have a cunning plan.”

Lord of Anaerion: Mahu Lazarescu

 In the shadowed lands east of the World's Edge Mountains, where the fog never lifts and the wolves howl more like men than beasts, lies the ruined citadel of Anaerion — a name whispered in border taverns with dread and reverence. Once a proud bastion of the old bloodlines, its last living scion still walks the earth: Mahu Lazarescu, known to friend and foe alike as the Lord of Anaerion.

Born in the cursed Black Vale, Mahu was heir to an ancient and decaying nobility, rulers of a land long since swallowed by darkness. Vampires, witches, and worse once called the vale home, and it was said the Lazarescu bloodline had made unspoken pacts to protect their people from worse fates. But the truth is darker: Mahu’s ancestors once stood against the undead — a secret order of sword-lords bound to annihilate evil, no matter the cost.

From a young age, Mahu was trained in the discipline of the Crimson Scriptorium, an ancient martial order blending warfare with ritual and grim prophecy. He was taught the greatsword as an extension of the soul — not a weapon, but a final argument. His blade, Năpasta (meaning Calamity), is said to be forged from meteorite iron, etched with runes drawn from Morr’s own tomb-writings, and quenched in the blood of an ancient daemon.

When Mahu came of age, he returned to Anaerion to claim his title — and found it besieged by a tide of undead, led by a blood-priestess he once loved. The battle lasted seven days. In the end, Mahu stood alone among the ashes, his family slain, his ancestral lands blighted, and his enemies cast back into the grave. From that moment on, he bore the title “Lord of Nothing.” Yet rumours say Anaerion’s crypts still whisper his name — and the dead fear it.

Now, clad in dark, weather-beaten armour and with Năpasta across his back, Mahu walks the world as a vengeful relic of a forgotten age. He joins quests not for gold, but to hunt whispers: necromancers, chaos cults, and vampires who might one day rise to plague his homeland anew. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice carries the weight of tombstones.

Those who fight beside him say he never sleeps. They say he communes with the spirits of his fallen kin. And they say that, in battle, Mahu becomes like death itself — patient, relentless, and utterly final.

Outlaw: Mad Jack Churchill

 “Any man who says you can’t bring a longbow to a gunfight hasn’t met Mad Jack.” — Common saying in Stirland border towns.

Jack Churchill was born under a blood moon in the forgotten mountain hamlet of Mossmere Hollow, a frozen cluster of cottages clinging to the Grey Mountains. His mother, a red-haired traveling minstrel with a harp and a sharp tongue, vanished into the snows not long after his birth. His father, Ser Aldric von Eisenwald, had long since been stripped of lands and titles for insubordination during a failed border war. With nothing but tarnished pride and a half-broken sword, Aldric raised Jack on sword forms, sullen stories of court betrayal, and the sharp sting of discipline.

Jack’s early mentors included drunken hedge knights, bitter sell-swords, and forest poachers, all of whom taught him that law and honour were things written by the well-fed for the well-born. He was raised with a bow in one hand and a bastard sword in the other, and by ten, he could outshoot most of Mossmere’s hunters and outdrink half its militia.

When the Beastmen came, it was without warning or mercy. On a moonless winter night, their horned silhouettes rose from the fog, screaming curses in the Dark Tongue. Jack was fifteen. He watched the flames eat his childhood, watched friends and kin torn apart by claws and crude axes. But Jack didn’t die. He ran. And then he came back.

For three winters, Jack stalked the woods and ridges where the Beastmen herded and nested. Armed with his father's old bastard sword, a longbow of yew he carved himself, and only the barest trappings of warmth, he hunted them like wolves. He spoke to birds. He painted his face in ashes. He killed the chieftain of the herdstone tribe, Kargosh the Cleaver, in single combat beneath the bloodroot trees—naked but for a cloak, smeared in warpaint, and laughing like a madman. That’s when the stories began. That’s when the “Mad” took hold.
When word spread of a lone man wiping out a herdstone tribe with bow and blade, offers came quickly—knighthoods, lordships, even marriage from a minor noble house in Averland. Jack spat at the lot.

“Titles are just shackles made of brass instead of iron,” he said, burning the parchment bearing the Stirland crest.

Instead, Jack disappeared into the forests and borderlands, becoming a mythic outlaw. He robbed tax caravans. He freed slaves bound for Norscan shores. He dueled a Chaos sorcerer on the cliffs of Grunhollow Pass and shot a vampire through both eyes from atop a moving horse.

Once, he fought alongside a band of dwarves against greenskins. When offered payment, he accepted only a single cask of dwarven ale and a brass owl figurine.
Jack is a paradox—cheerful yet savage, charming yet clearly unhinged. He whistles folk tunes mid-fight. He gives his weapons names (Justice, the greatsword; Mercy, the longbow) and occasionally converses with them. He can spend hours talking to birds or trees. One minute he’s crafting a flute from elderwood for a child; the next he’s plunging his sword into a Chaos cultist while quoting obscure gardening advice.

His madness isn't mere affectation—some say the Warp touched his mind during the Beastman war. Others believe he chooses to be mad to remain free in a world bound by cruelty. Whatever the truth, his unpredictability is as much a weapon as his sword. Jack wanders still—sometimes alone, sometimes leading a band of similarly strange freedom-fighters called The Hollow Bough, named after the ruins of his village. He is hunted by Witch Hunters, courted by rebel leaders, and feared by Chaos warbands.

He answers to no banner, though he will fight beside you if your cause is just—or at least amusing. Just be ready. You’ll know he’s coming by:

• A birdcall that shouldn't be native to the region.
• A war-horn made of bone and laughter.
• The sound of singing—badly, but with enthusiasm.
• Or a loud explosion, followed by someone shouting, “Well, that wasn’t in the plan.”

“There’s only two kinds of men: those who build cages, and those who break 'em. I’m the third kind. I set fire to the whole damn menagerie.”