Lord Brogan Nightgold
Life is too short for the kind of drama that doesn't end with a roll in the furs.
Description: Brogan the Brawler is, for lack of a better word, big. Broad shoulders, massive biceps, big and bearlike from the bulk of his chest and back to the sturdy trunks of his legs, he looks like the kind of man who drinks from a keg and then smashes the keg over his head. His eyes are pale beneath bushy red brows, often lit by joy, drink, or a kind of affable, fighting rage. He wears his hair long, a flowing mane of deep, burnished auburn streaked with bronzey light. His features are a little fine and clean for the rest of his frame: a fine straight nose, softly bowed lips, only one chipped tooth. His beard is a luxuriant affair of silky auburn red, full and plush and sometimes braided when he feels especially dressy.
Personality: Brogan is larger than life: big, roaring laughter, a lusty temperament, and the wild abandonment of a man who refuses to sink into gloom or sadness. When the going gets tough, Brogan finds a new way to go. In the past, when doom and depression threatened him, he embraced an entirely new life philosophy to avoid it. He is his own unique kind of adaptable. He loves drinking, fighting, smashing tables, gambling, screwing, dancing, singing, throwing people into walls, wrestling bears -- well, okay, that was one time -- and generally, being an uproarious and outrageous fellow. There are depths to Brogan and to his passions, but he spends most of his time doing his damnedest to just be one hell of a guy.
Background: Born to be a duke's younger brother, Brogan expected his lot in life from an early age, and threw himself into it with a will. Marriage for politics, maybe -- he was a dutiful son, and he expected that even when he was a young teenager -- but that was nothing to put a damper on his lust for life or his life of lust. Marriage did nothing to stop him from running amok amongst the common folk, or among the other similarly ranked nobles, for that matter. He drank, hunted, punched and gambled his way through every keep in the North and brought with him wild volume, laughter, and just an inordinate supply of delightful bullshit.
His wife was another count's daughter, from the Oathlands, and she died giving him his firstborn daughter, who died a few years later. It was the kind of tragedy that could have brought a lesser man down. For Brogan, it made him live harder, live wilder. He disappeared into the snows and got in touch with the mountain's icy roots, bringing himself to the shaman's path and hunting for blood, life and happiness in his own way.
When he returned, it was as an uncle to the new Duchess Nadia, as a frequent inebriate and a roaring soldier who drank as much as he punched. Bare fist fighting was his specialty (and remains so) and while in coming to Arx as part of the Nightgold retinue has made him miss the snows, he came ready to throw himself into the uproarious life of a lesser nobleman in the capital.