|Residence||Kirkwall, the Free Marches|
|Gear||Steel Chevalier Armor, a morning star style mace (ball with spikes), and a targe with a blade attached to the center of it|
|Behind the Mask|
Medium blonde hair, with sideburns that meet at the chin and stubble surrounding the rest of his face, with dull blue eyes. He’s tall, of a medium build, and a generally stoic face.
Born around the time that Ferelden was freed from Orlesian control, Gerard grew up with his parents in a small estate in Jader. His father wanted him to be a Chevalier, his mother wanted him to be a diplomat, and he, in all honesty, wanted to just make sure people on his side fought and survived. He trained in the arts of warfare, both on and off the battlefield, since he was sixteen.
He favored a morning star over a sword because his father, not a Chevalier but just a soldier, used one similar. He left his parents’ estate and Jader when he was eighteen so that he could become more world wise before he wanted to attempt the Chevalier’s training in Val Royeaux. He earned his keep by acting as a guard for a merchant and they crossed the Border into Ferelden.
The first thing he thought, other than asking how they live with the smell of wet dog, was that this was a major culture shock from what he was used to back in Jader, and even on the roads in Orlais. One night, outside the local tavern, he observed two Fereldan mercenaries training. One of them had a form of a shield he had never seen before, it was round with a blade in the center of it.
The next morning, Gerard collected his payment from the merchant and went to the local blacksmith. He explained to the smith the shield he had seen and asked if he could craft one similar. He paid the man an exorbitant sum for it, but Gerard didn’t care. He tested the targe’s weight with his mace and found the two complimented each other well enough.
But he was a man without much gold left, so he went back into the tavern to look for another merchant or perhaps some wandering mercenaries he could hire on with. A fruitless day of searching led him to using a few silvers to drink the cheap brandy they served there. An Orlesian nobleman and his guards walked into the tavern, exhausted from their ridings and very rowdy.
Many of the Fereldan patrons found excuses and left, but not Gerard. And why should he? He’s Orlesian as well, no reason not to drink with his fellow countrymen. However, one of the knights that accompanied the nobleman started to harass the barmaid, normally Gerard wouldn’t have interfered. He had heard tales, though most were admittedly propaganda, of Fereldan women’s various reputations. But this was a girl, no older than he was.
Gerard, perhaps at the behest of the cheap brandy, told the knight to back off from her. The knight told him to piss off, even called him a “dog lord’s bitch”. Enraged at this, Gerard called the man out, questioning the man’s honor in “conquering” a barmaid. The Chevalier immediately challenged him to a duel, and they went out into the night air.
The two dueled, and with the help of his new targe, Gerard killed the Chevalier. He stripped the fallen knight of his armor and proclaimed it his, and any man who wanted to challenge that could duel him. The Chevalier’s fellows were outraged at this, and the remaining two charged at him. Gerard dropped the Chevalier’s armor and struck the two guards down with his mace and targe.
He took the armor once again, and started walking deeper into Ferelden. He was certain that he would never be a Chevalier, but he could wear one’s armor proudly to signify what a real knight should do. He wandered Ferelden for ten years, selling his services as a Chevalier mercenary, despite the occupation that only ended nearly three decades ago, Fereldans knew of a Chevalier’s strength.
His reputation grew among merchants and noblemen not only as an Orlesian Chevalier, but because when he traveled with a group, no one was ever killed. He honed his skills in Ferelden as a Guardian, making sure both his charges and his fellow mercenaries would not fall in battle, and that he should be the one who takes the blows instead of them.
But he grew tired of Ferelden, just as he had of Orlais. It had tempered his attitude, he wasn’t as hotheaded as he once was. He chartered a ship and went to the Free Marches. For the next three years, at the age of thirty one, he entered Kirkwall having explored all other major cities, ready for whatever challenges he would face.