Cian Berne

Credits to Artgerm.
Character Name: Cian Berne
Nationality: Irish
Religion: Celtic Christian
Character Age: 27
Profession: Ruthless conniving rogue (I intend him to be lawman/jailor/interrogator of House Ceoling)
Family Members:

Rósin Berne - Sister - 23
Treasach Berne - Father - RIP
Scothnait Berne - Mother - RIP

Physical Appearance: His darkened blonde wooshing hair give an audacity to his tried-and-tested face marked by the various marks that one acquires in his line of work. He generally keeps his facial hair trimmed though be choice (a job) or circumstance (being in the hoo-ha end of nowhere) his beard, albeit scruffy and unkempt, won't go very far naturally.

Personality: He is a man of conflicting personalities even though he'd say he has only one. Despite having a degree of guilt of his past (and present) he doesn't shy away from whatever work needs to be performed, be a friendly conversation with a prisoner or conning his way to steal something valuable. Still, he has a strange code of conduct and morals which, even not being exactly moral by themselves, are enough for him and let him sleep at night. However, above and beyond all in life there is one thing and one thing only he holds the dearest: his sister. While he may look like a bull he'd quickly change into a puppy dog should his sister somehow become present. In his mind, she is in absolute reliance to his support while, in truth, he is the one whom relies on her presence. Some say any man would be like this, others say he's a crazed psychopath, but the only unquestionable truth is: he just loves Rósin.

Duchess Patented Bio Format™:

Brief History (oh the irony):

The gravestone marked "Rósin Berne". Well, or at least that's what the priest told me. It didn't seem likely that a man of God would lie. Chieftains, commanders, soldiers, working men, working women, working ladies, that's understandable, but a holyman? It was funny that the man, me, who came up with such thoughts was very much not a saint.

"I'm sorry for your loss" he came up to me with a fake face of grief.
"Cut the small talk. I want my payment, like we said"
"Have some respect for your sister, Cian"
"Oh, yes. Sure you do Cairell"
"Jesus, I knew you were a ruthless man but not this much"
"You know me"

I'm Cian and the other name after it is Berne. I was born in a little hamlet in a sea of grass in Dal Riata. A sea of grass which also hosted other hamlets, though I never really cared for what didn't affect me. Except those "Romans". Woah, Romans are stuff of legend. Since a wee cub the priest would tell me of tales of wonder of the "Roman Empire" - stones that moved water; roads that repealed mud from the wagon; a "city" with so many houses you couldn't fit in your eyes. I'm getting sidetracked. Anyway, it goes without saying that I was a blissful and curious little child.

Once I was old enough I was put to work. First I started by planting the wheat fields, then I started hoisting wheat on top of carts, and then once they decided I was good enough to trust, they put me to direct the cart to the market. On the trips I had my long time friend Cairell. Thing is, he had another proposition in mind, with his own troupe of long time friends. Young and stupid as I was (not like I changed), I went with him. My parents never found out, mainly because they were now four feet under because of dysentery.

Well then, I had another reason to work with my ill-mannered friends. There was a little girl I had to take care of as well as a house to pay rent. It started out simple. Stealing a few heirlooms soon became conning inside a ledger and getting away with it. I won't say I'm proud of this past, but I'm pretty damn proud of my skill. In the end of dusk, little Rósin had a roof above her head.

Me and Cairell did a lot of work. I learned many tools of the trade - conning my way somewhere, coaxing someone to tell the truth, figure out if somebody is a lying bastard, smuggling something somewhere under the sheets of a wagon. It went on for years and years and, except for food and drink, I sent all that I got to lil' Rósin. Funny enough, even though I stole plenty business ledgers, I never knew what they said because I don't know how to read.

But then I realized that this line of work is dangerous. Yes, big surprise, don't judge too hard. If I was gone for good, who'd take care of wee Rósin?

"Cian, mate. You can't put all this behind you. We're family"
"Look, Cairell. You're the best damn fellow a no-good conniving criminal could ask. I'm not one anymore"
"Then what I think is that you're betraying us and calling the manhunters on us!" before I could process, he already had a dagger up on my stomach
"Come on now, Cairell. Calm down"
"Don't you tell me to calm down you traitor"
"Look, if we have to do this, let's not do it over my sister's grave, eh?"

"And then what?"

She said over the pile of straw over some wooden beams they called a bed. What was her name? Caly? Cara? Carree? And for once, I was glad they didn't have a blanket in the Isle.

"I drove my dagger up his gullet once he crossed the gate"
"Jesus Christ, you were friends since childhood" working ladies always were surprisingly honest.
"Friends don't pull daggers on you. Besides, I wanna burn that bridge. Start fresh. Honest work. Be a good man"
"Well you're doing a good job at that I see" she giggled
"Not that way" I had to appreciate how blunt she was. In fact, I had to reflect on the fact I was telling my life story to a random woman in a tavern room
"Well, what else?"
"I took his pouch. Plucked a flower, laid it on her grave, and got on the first boat I could find" a storm had damaged it and the crew had to stop at Mann. I have to give it to them: good brothels, though I didn't exactly go sightseeing
"Well, thanks for the story. Reckon you're ready for another go?"
"Does this cost extra?"
"What do you think?"

Now, now. The boat would only be ready the other dawn, so I might as well. Still, there was enough dally. Rósin was in Alba and she had work for me.