Gilles Ettringer

Sir Gilles Ettringer was an elderly but fierce Grail Knight, who acted as the personal champion for his barony.
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History
In his younger years Gilles's questing had taken him all over the Old World and beyond. He had fought alongside dwarfs against orcs and goblins in the World's Edge Mountains, done battle with Sartosan pirates, slaughtered beastmen and mutants within the forests, even driven a skaven horde back into the heart of its foul subterranean nest. He had now served the de Chambourt family as their champion for over four decades, and despite his ageing appearance of a middle-aged man, lined and white-whiskered, his sword skills knew no equal and, in the trials, he could still keep several far younger opponents at bay.

Attack on the Shrine
It was during one of Sir Gilles' patrols into the local forest that he came across a horde of Beastmen desecrating a holy shrine. Invoking the name of the Lady, the Grail Knight's voice echoed throughout the forest clearing. The heads of the four beastmen at the entrance to the shrine turned to look at him, claws reaching for weapons. Drawing his own blade, Sir Gilles spurred his steed towards the hated abominations. Furious that they dared to tread on this holy ground.

Though righteous anger burned in his heart, he did not let it consume nor cloud his mind, for he was a loyal servant of the Lady of the Lake. Nourished by the water of the holy chalice, his soul was as strong and sure as the steel in his mailed hand. These defilers would pay dearly for their trespass.

The first was dispatched before it even had chance to bring its sword to bear. The second's head, that of a half-starved dog, flew from its shoulders, crashing into the undergrowth. A goat-headed enemy came at him from the side, baring foam-flecked teeth, scrawny arm preparing to throw a crude spear. Sir Gilles tugged sharply at the reins, sinking his spurs deep into his mount, and manoeuvred it round. The warhorse, rocking forward onto sturdy forelegs, kicked sharply backwards, its iron-clad hooves snapping the beastman's neck. A spiked mace was swung vainly. Sir Gilles brought his shield up, absorbing the blow, then flicked his blade deftly out, its point sinking for a fatal second into the breast of his final foe.

Hardly out of breath, Sir Gilles surveyed the carnage he had wrought. The only sound was the pounding of his horse's hooves as it pawed the blood-soaked ground.