Mieszko Orlovsky

Mieszko Orlovsky witnessed his father cut down at the tender age of 7. This was the day he learned that the tongue could be far sharper than the sword. He watched his father's opponent skillfully weave outlandish accusations from thin air, lashing out with overwhelming confidence and conviction. In the end, the importance of the truth was nil. Casimir Orlovsky was cut from the Orlovsky name, along with his wife and children.

Mieszko was fascinated with this man. This man who had handily dismantled his father without even touching him. Mieszko spent the next several years of his life around these kinds of people whenever he could, usually working in some servile manner under them. He saw it all: the underhanded treachery, the superficial alliances, the outlandish bravado., all of their games.

Despite his talent and intelligence, his family's shameful status left Mieszko ultimately on the street. His father hung himself in disgrace on his 15th birthday. His mother cared for the next 2 years until suddenly vanishing one day, leaving him 20 gold coins and a note that read 'good luck'.

Mieszko got by easily if not a bit unscrupulously, though his life was rather hollow. Without noble status, Mieszko would never be able to step into their arena, and he would amount to little more than a quick witted brigand that had a way with words. He eventually left Eagle's Watch behind and decided to make his way in Restov for a time.

Mieszko sat on a rooftop, hat over his eyes, eavesdropping on the locals. He had gone by the moniker of Krennel Banwick as of late, having long abandoned his Orlovsky identity. He sat cooking under the sun for an hour or so, until a conversation of interest finally reared its head.

"Oi, oi, Dogin! y'ear 'bout ol' Sellemius?"

"I don't wanna hear a single crow's fart about that old piss!"

"This'z bit interestin' tho, word about town's he sendin' blokes down to the green belt, gonner make a try at settlin' that wretched wolde"

"Eh? What's his game? Who does he think he is, the Lord Regent?"

"Well uhhh, word also is that he is actin' on direct proclamatin' by Sortover 'imself, seems to be this is impor'ant business of sorts."

"You're foolin'! Well where do I sign up? I've been waiting for a chance to get out of this filthy slum! Why I'd like-

"Ah no no, sorry, ha! they's hand selectin' their men, y'need an invite from th'man Sellemius himself, they's not gonna be takin' worthless pricks like you or me! ha!

Mieszko had all that he had needed to. His mind was racing. An expedition into the green belt? Starting a settlement from scratch? The opportunities would be endless, why he could even...

He focused his thoughts. First things first. He would need a name, one that people had heard of, one that will catch the attention of the Lord Mayor. Mieszko looked down and muttered to himself:

"Kysziem Danswitch can't wear rags like these."

He had always been fond of his original name, and thought this personal homage would be safe enough where he was going.

He stood outside one of the finer tailors in the city, looking in.

A single merchant behind a desk, rows of fine clothing along the walls, fine jewelry on display in front of him. How would he go about this...

"OutRRRRAGEOUS!"

The Tailor jerked with surprise, having been calmly reviewing his ledgers moments ago.

"I SAY THERE, GOOD SIR! BUT I REQUIRE YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION."

The tailor was bewildered at the half naked man standing before him, wearing nothing but his breeches and a neatly trimmed mustache.

"H-how can I help you?" he stammered out.

"HELL BLASTED SCOUNDRELS, I'LL HAVE THEIR NECKS!"

The man shouted to no one in particular.

"I AM ON MY WAY TO AN EXTREMELY IMPORTANT DINNER ENGAGEMENT, AND I WAS ROBBED! ROBBED! EVEN THE CLOTHES OFF MY BACK!"

The loudness and arrogance of the man seemed to alert the tailor to the man's status.

"My lord, please calm yourself, if you need fine clothing there is no better establishment in all Restov!"

"HMPH, I Highly doubt that. But I find myself with little choice!"

The man quickly scanned over the room.

"That! Yes that there, and this cloak, and I see you have some fine onyx rings. Fit me for these! And Quickly Dammit! I am running late as it is!"

"Right away my lord!"

The tailor worked quickly, measuring and cutting, as the enraged nobleman stood, arms crossed, face beet red, a single vein bulging on the side.

As he finished the nobleman looked himself up and down.

"I suppose this will have to do, very well!"

An unfortunate reality began to dawn upon the tailor.

"Um, p-pardon me my lord, but how do you plan to pay for these?"

The man shot him a harsh wide eyed look, as if he had been asked the most ignorant question.

"DID I NOT ENTER YOUR STORE FRESHLY ROBBED? FOOL! I WILL SEND MY SERVANTS LATER WITH YOUR PAYMENT!"

Intimidated, but realizing he still had a business to run, the tailor pressed further.

"I humbly apologize my lord, but I'm afraid you will need to come back for-"

"outRRRAGEOUS! HERE THEN!"

The man grabbed a piece of parchment and quill from the tailor's desk and began scribbling furiously as the tailor watched.

I, Lord Deybold Augustus Orlovsky, have agreed to pay the bearer of this parchment thrice the given price of his wares, equaling -"

"Well?! Equaling?"

"s-s-six hundred gold pieces m'lord"

"equaling Six Hundred Gold Pieces.

Signed,

Lord Deybold Augustus Orlovsky

The man finished the parchment with an extremely extravagant, well practiced signature. The Tailor recognized the name of course. As a purveyor of fine clothing, he kept tabs on any visiting noblemen to Restov.

"Here, present this to an aide from my estate, and he shall see to it that you are duly compensated! WILL THIS SUFFICE?"

"Y-yes my lord! I appreciate your generosity!"

"Very well! The hour is late and I must be off! GOOD DAY!"

With that he turned and left the store, walked down the street, glanced around, ducked into an alleyway, and ripped his mustache off.

Mieszko smiled.

"Now for a reputation."