If shadows are all you see in front of you, turn around to see the light.
Description: Surrounded perpetually by a thin cloud of ash from the forge, this man of Corsetina blood presents a figure some might find imposing, perhaps even attractive. His figure is a balance of lithe mobility and brute strength, the latter found more in the arms and legs. His stormy gray eyes project calmness and confidence, though that would only be scratching the surface. His muddy brown hair receives a touch of blonde in the sunlight, cut short in almost military fashion. His jaw is covered in a light peach-fuzz of sorts, the beginnings of a proper beard. His hands present with some roughness and calluses, owing to his long hours performing manual labor.
Personality: Rickard could be considered unfired sculptor's clay. While he possesses a strong will, and will go to great lengths to see his tasks finished, he is not above asking for help, or second opinions. He's more of a lover than a fighter, but does not back down when it comes to defending something or someone about whom he cares deeply. He takes great pride in his smithing work, and believes everything has its place and purpose. A sword not fit for a king might be a good prop for the actors' guild, for example. He finds holding grudges to be beneath him; sure, he'll remember those who wrong him, but he won't let it affect his life. He'll use that fire to better himself.
Background: Rickard was not born, so much as he was forged, practically crawling forth from the depths with a blacksmith's hammer and tongs in his grip. His father could not have been happier to have a son carrying on the family tradition. Both found solace at an anvil more than anywhere else, and enjoyed a good drink now and then, as long as it didn't interfere with work. Mother, on the other hand, did her best to stay as far away from drink as was possible, encouraging Rickard to do the same; she found that even the smell of alcohol made her violently ill.
Entering the blacksmith shop for the first time, Rickard could barely contain his excitement. A stern, but approving, look from his father quickly subdued the youngster's outward enthusiasm, but his hands just wouldn't stop shaking until he went to deliver that first blow with the hammer. As the day went on, he found himself settling into a rhythm. By the end of the third day, he'd completed his first order: twenty swords for the local barracks, all without any help (at least, hands-on help; there was a bit of verbal coaching) from his father. The adrenaline rush was amazing. He wanted more. Thus, Rickard knew he'd found his calling.