Some men are born to be knights, trained as pages from the day they can ride, serving as squires to other nobles, and finally elevated to knighthood. Other men rise from more humble beginnings and achieve it through strength and virtue.

This one was born Mykal Tanner, to, as the name suggests, a family of leatherworkers. Skinning hides made him handy with a blade, and lifting rolls of leather and pumping the tanning tanks layers muscle on to his naturally strong, rangy frame. But while a hard worker, he was also a troublemaker, drunk and a womaniser, even as a youth. One day, he spied a group of knights at his favourite tavern, on their way to the Grande Tourney. Noticing the particularly fine crest one of them sported on his helm, Mykal decided to play a prank by stealing it.

Came the day of the Tourney, and he snuck into the bleachers to watch the jousts and melee. Mykal saw the knight whose helm he had stolen fighting on foot, bare headed – though he would have been within his rights to yield the bout, given his unarmoured condition. But the man courageously decided to fight... and took a fatal blow to the head for it. After the match, the knight's brothers in arms confronted Mykal,but instead of seeking revenge they simply wanted the helmet back, for burial. The young man had never seen such bravery, mercy and dignity... and for the first time in his life, he felt truly ashamed. He threw himself down before the knights, begging for the chance to make amends, to be allowed to become a better man. In the memory of their brother, the knights assented.

Mykal was taught how to fight with honour, rather than gutter-brawling, and trained in courtly ways, chivalry and noble duties. He learned how to ride and joust and protect the weak and treat his liege with respect, and the fires of his faith were stoked. When he was deemed ready, Mykal stood vigil over his arms and armour in the chapel, and was anointed Ser Mykal – called the Pureblade for his skill with a sword, and the vows of chastity and sobriety he made before the gods.

Standing 6'2” and 220 lbs of pure muscle, Mykal is 27 years old, with shoulder-length golden hair and a short neat beard. Sun and tanning fumes have left his skin with a hint of burnished bronze marred by a few livid scars, and two blue eyes sparkle like pale gems under his chiselled brow. His expression speaks of kindness, honour and duty, but every now and again a glimmer of the old mischievous sense of humour can be seen in his gaze or smile.