Scott Winterbottom (NSW)

==Description==
Name: Scott Winterbottom
Age: 37
Rank: Lieutenant
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 165
WS: 14
Primary Weapon: longsword
Secondary Weapon: heavy crossbow
Tertiary Weapon: mace
Scott Winterbottom knows how to have fun but his mirth is frosty like his bottom and he’s often accused of being an ass. It’s not really his fault. He can be naughty or nice and it altogether depends on his mood and fancy because you know what? He’s human and follows his heart, which often calls for blood. In the literal sense, damn it!
His physical appearance is that of what he is, an everyman, a working man with hands of leather and face of wind-whipped flesh. He is neither portly nor wiry for both are undesired extremes but instead stays somewhere in the healthy centre.
His hair is long but kempt because he is a soldier, and his moustache is thick and droopy because he likes it like that. He is as muscular as he needs to be and is of average height because . . . he had no choice about that one; if it had been up to him he’d have been shorter out of defiance.
Oh yes, and his hair is red and speckled with white and his eyes are green and speckled with dust. Some days anyway. That’s why he also has a pretty fierce squint because things in your eyes are unpleasant.
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==History==
Scott was not born with a sword in his hand, for which his mother is eternally grateful. Or was. Until she died from a rather embarrassing and, err, personal disease, at which time she was less than pleased.
Scott was not born under a particular set of stars, moons or astrological portents. He was born in the middle of the day, or at least late morning.
Scott was not born with a destiny, or any intrinsic thirst beyond a certain attraction for certain aspects of the female physique that is pretty standard of a) men and b) babies.
Essentially what I am saying is Scott’s birth was an event unbeknownst to anyone but a down-and-out prostitute and a midwife, and, several hours later, a stern, retired soldier who, when given a choice of potential vices had chosen to make woohoo with women he perhaps should not have. In his defence he had been drunk and that excuses everything.
The soldier, at first startled, saw his own flesh and stoically accepted his obligations. After all, he was a thoroughgoing soldier and knew a thing or two about obligation and responsibility, and also making woohoo with women he perhaps should not have.
And so he gave Scott everything he could, which was an honest upbringing demanding discipline and hard work. Like any other child Scott did his best to avoid both but admittedly grew into them and himself became a reflection of his father . . . without illicit woohoo and baby manufacturing. Which I hear is a pretty solid market these days.
And this is where my story becomes even more monotonous and boring without any interesting bits at all, but hey, that’s life.
Scott wanted to see the world and following in his father’s footsteps, so he became a soldier in the Queen’s Guard . . . until he realised he was never going to get out of Andor that way. But always dutiful he waited until his service expired and then rather than re-applying chose to move farther afield.
And thus began a rather colourful career of military service spanning two decades and all four points on the compass.
I would like to call him a ‘jack of all trades’ but I’ve already told you his name was Scott. I can happily share with you the glorious news of his versatility: here a forager, trapper and cook, there a scout and tracker, a little to the right an archer and a little to the south an infantryman, oh and let’s not forget the mounted cavalry which goes in a kind of circular motion and generally anti-clockwise if it has crossbows.
Now I’m not saying he can shoot you in the left eyeball from three hundred feet with a crossbow, or disarm you with unrelenting prowess and a magical sword of gunpowder immolation, but he can shoot you in the chest from thirty feet, and disarm you from three, which is going to leave you just as dead or armless.
He likes to try new things and work with his hands. What can I say?
Oh, and I’m pretty sure he joined The Band of the Red Hand to try his own hand at masonry. Let’s just hope it doesn’t end up red. Because that would mean blood. And blood is bad. Unless you especially like blood. Which would make it good.