Leichbrecht Crowson

Big happy guy

Description:

Leibrecht raised his tankard to his lips and managed to choke down another gulp of the swill they served for beer in the Sailors Delight. A nasty, smelly, vaguely resembling a structure that these northerners called a bar. Shaking his head slowly he sat the tankard down and wondered what the heck he thought he was doing here. Then the sickening feeling as his stomach knotted up. Death. Death awaits me in the south if I do succeed. Then again…that wench is kind of cute.

Suddenly his reverie was disturbed by a flying body that landed on his table. And knocked the tankard all over him. Great. Now I am going to SMELL as bad as that tasted. Looking down he saw a small weasel of a man that was gasping for air, southerner by the looks of him. What the heck is he doing this far north? Looking around he quickly surmised that the North-man stomping towards the table was the reason. Motioning to the wench he made the signal for another drink and leaned back. Clink. Glancing down he saw the small money purse drop out of the mans hands and onto the floor. Ah. That explains it. By why did a northerner even have that much money to begin with? That was quite a sizable clink.

No matter. He leaned further back in the chair as the Northerner grabbed the little weasel and drug him up to standing again to start beating on him proper. Well proper for what this guy called fighting at least. As the wench brought him his drink, nicely swaying out of the way of the beating, he caught her eye and motioned down to the floor. She nodded and reached down and grabbed it, then tossed it to the bartender who nodded his head at her then him. Hah justice.

The weasel finally collapsed on the floor, almost landing on his boots. Criminals, seems like no matter where you go someone is trying to make a living off of those who work for it. Reaching into his own pouch he threw the money to the wench who was still there to pay for his drink and she said something that he guessed was thanks. He needed to learn more of their language if he was going to complete his mission.

Leaving the “bar” a few hours later, well into tipsy but not quite drunk (the beer was horrible), he leaned against the wall and took a deep breath of the cold salty air coming off the ocean. The waves crashing against the unforgiving rocks that made up the beaches here were so loud this time of night, but oddly comforting.

Turning to walk towards his “inn” which he held in no higher regard than the “bar” he heard a painful gasp coming from the right. Glancing down the alley he saw the northerner again, this time he was on his knees as two hulking, but dumb looking northerners stood over. One reared back his foot and planted it firmly in the guys guts, almost lifting him a foot in the air. Not your problem Leib, not your problem. I turned to continue then I saw the weasel, standing over the guy talking crap. Oh. Sigh. Sobriety check…maybe not so much. Reaching into his duster pockets he gripped Pain and Agony in his left and right hands and squeezed. Oh.

Charging in he immediately upper cutted the weasel who promptly laid down and shut up. Turning on the two brutes he noticed that they were a little smaller than him. Readying himself he dropped into the street stance he had been taught by the repeated beatings from the older boys in his home village. The first one came in high landing two solid blows that he took without a problem. Guy hits like a punk he thought as he pummeled right back, opening up the guys forehead with one blow and taking his breath out of him with another. He immediately leaned to the side as his friend tried to get into the action, preventing a kidney shot, but still taking a hit on his back. Brute one seemed to be a little woozy so he continued the assault on him. He blocked one punch but he got the button with the left and he fell hard.

Turning around he looked down at the other guy. He seemed really uncomfortable and leib smiled. He dropped both knuckle dusters on the ground. Still smiling he made the come on motion. All fair. The guy cautiously approached and tried to throw a proper punch. As soon as he was close enough Leib grabbed him by the arm and swing around him, kicking the back of his knee to make him kneel he simply stepped on the leg that was down and wrapped his arm around the guys throat and leaned back. Yeah. Struggle. Oh the elbow that’s cute…no no..yeah keep struggling…and your out. As he dropped the guy face first into the dirt he heard a groan as weasel started to come too. Shaking his head he reached into his satchel and grabbed the leather strips he always carried on him. Acting quickly on weasel, and then taking his time on the two brutes he hog tied them proper. No one is getting out of that.

Finally he got around to checking on the Northerner who was still wheezing on the ground. Broken ribs, couple of lacerations, oh and of course some real nice shiners for the next week. Well he knew how to set bones at least and just cleaning the lacerations with some wine he had would help that. Taking his time he set to helping the guy out.

He finally awoke when he pulled the bandage tight around his ribs. With a proper northern yell no less.
Well having ribs wrapped hurt so I can give him that. I made the sign for peace and stood up and motioned to the weasel and company on the ground.

His eyes widened. He said something…I really do need to learn how to speak this language.

He started to get up and I offered him my hand, which surprisingly he took. Calloused hands, not the hands of a warrior either, working mans hands. Looking closer he saw the tell tell burn scars up and down the mans arms. Smith work. And looking closer he was not that old. Maybe late into his teens. The bulk of him made him appear older I guess. Shrugging I nodded to him and said your welcome. He nodded and said “thanks” in a horrible accented south-land common.

Where did you learn to speak southern?

He made a motion that I took to mean a little.

From who?

He reached into the weasels coat pockets and grabbed his, now familiar, coin purse. The weasel started mouthing something off to him and promptly got a boot to the face for his troubles from yours truly.

He motioned for me to follow as we headed out.

Well might as well. Maybe someone at the smith speaks southern and I can get some information that I can understand out of him.

<end>

Bio:

Leichbrecht was born into a poor family, in a nasty hovel in a hole in the wall of a village in Wissenland.

However his father was a hunter, and they ate well, if they had no real money to speak of.

When his father got caught poaching, of course the empire hung him up, and his mother took her now early teens son with her to stay with her sister and her husband in a nearby town.

Now Leichbrecht is a big guy, and has been since he was about 13. Towering over kids much older than him. This earned him no friends and often they would gang up on him to beat him up in the alleys. Resilient, and tough, he learned, the hard way, both how to take a beating, and how to dish one out, often against multiple opponents.

His size alone caught the eye of the local magistrate who signed him up to be a jailer for him. So he now had a job in Salzenmund that fitted his personality and abilities perfectly. His coworkers learned quickly that while he had an deep ingrained love of justice, he tolerated no unfair fights. If you could not stand as a man and do it one on one then you deserved to get your ass beat. However it goes both ways, and they often smiled when the prisoners tried to gang up on one of them when Leichbrecht walked in on a fight. Many a prisoner got choked down by Leichbrecht, giving him his coworkers praise and many a scums hatred.

He was selected to help with a guard detail, something that he thought would be new and exciting but turned out to be almost the same as being a jailer, just the food was better and you got to see a lot of the town.

He is in Corsica at the behest of a customer. She wanted information, so he is up here to get information.

Leichbrecht Crowson

Warhammer: Chaos Rises WaineRoss