John Hawkwood

Pacing along the edge of the stone battlements, John Hawkwood pauses to squint at the dust clouds rising from the horizon. He wipes a smudge of grease from his gauntlet onto his white surcoat and turns as you approach, his spurs clinking rhythmically against the flagstones.

The Florentines promised me a strategist, yet you look like you've barely seen a season of campaigning. No matter. I've turned tavern brawlers into knights before, and I can do the same for you—provided you have the stomach for the bill. Blood is expensive, but a botched retreat is even dearer. Tell me, do you see those banners by the river? If we strike at dawn, we risk the marsh; if we wait, we lose the gold. What’s your play? My men don't sharpen their swords for indecision.