Richart Le Sieve -Star Bretonnian Bloodbowl Player, and new character idea

I want to preface this with some info about me, I’m a longtime Warhammer fan, and lore obsessive psychopath. I’m playing Total Warhammer 2 as I write this, and wrapping up the first Gotrek and Felix book inbetween turns. I absolutely adore Vermintide and our friends at Fatshark for making the game, I look forward to seeing what they do and have planned in the future.

The stuff related to how he plays is all at the bottom. Everything before that is backstory.

Now for the actual reason you’re reading this, good ol’ Richart. Richart hails from good (Awful) old Brionne. Ricky “Road-Rash” Le Sieve came from not-so-humble beginnings, the spoiled rotten son of a Bretonnian Lord Knight, Richart had it all. But being a sheltered nobleman’s son was not nearly enough for Richart, he wanted more out of life, sneaking into taverns while his father was away or busy. Be it starting barfights with his pompous attitude, or bullying his serfs with his almost unnatural size, he always found home staring into a crystal ball, watching the gore and carnage unfold on the astro-granite of Brionne’s own NAF league arena. He found himself enthralled in the violence, befriending a few of the tavern regulars who hadn’t found themselves at the receiving end of the meat tenderizers that Richart called hands, he headed a small tavern fan-club for one of the local NAF teams.

In the coming months, Richart’s interest in NAF grew to full-blown fanaticism, going so far as to have his favorite team’s colors tattooed on his face, along with the traditional warpaint of the patron God, and namesake of the NAF, Nuffle. (The black under-eye paint players use to keep the sun from hitting their eyes as hard.) As Richart’s fanaticism grew, so did his violent streak, going so far as to raise his hands to his own father, after the discovery and immense disapproval of Richart’s tavern-crawling, NAF partaking habits. Richart was disinherited, slashed from the family records, and kicked to the curb. Retreating to what had become his second home, and now only home, the Pissed Orc, Richart’s favorite tavern, he drank away his problems. After draining his purse in a few nights, Richart figured it was time to do something to make money, so with his size, and hate for honest work, he turned to next best thing: Banditry.

Along with his faithful and almost as equally fanatical fanclub, Richart took to the roads to become a highwayman of repute, and ruin his father’s family name for casting him out. After leading a rather successful career for a few months, robbing the odd lonely merchant or fool-hardy nobles that believed they wouldn’t need guards for the short trip from Brionne to the outskirt villages of Grenouille Gate. Richart’s career came to a head on one particular evening, as Morrslieb hung low. Richart’s gang ambushed a particularly juicy (And gaudy) carriage caravan. Something seemed familiar about the carriage, but in the gross light of Morrslieb, and the dark of night, it was hard to put a finger on. Richart descended on the lead carriage driver and his companion, knocking the driver clear, and the elderly, well-worn passenger unconscious with a blow to the chin from his trench shovel sized hands. Richart hijacked the carriage and sped off, pulling it away from the caravan, leaving his men to hold off any pursuers. As Richart pulled the caravan to a stop at his catch point in the woods, his men descended on the cart like vultures, pulling luggage from the top of the cart. Richart, eager to see what riches could be found inside, nearly pulled the door off the carriage in excitement.

What Richart found in this carriage was not an elderly noble and his mistress, cowering for their lives and throwing their jewelry at him to make him go away. Richart did not find the month’s haul he had wished for. He instead found himself staring down a rapidly approaching fist. Making note of the ornate and familiar ring his attacker wore, as it was the last thing Richart remembered before he was on the ground and fading from consciousness. “6 horses” Richart thought to himself staring at the front of the carriage. Richart realized far too late that no waif-thin nobleman, no matter the luggage would need 2 extra horses to haul their carriage.

Richart woke to the sound of shouting and foot steps speeding off away from him. Upon trying to readjust; Richart found his ankles were bound. As he opened his eyes, Richart was staring at the back of the carriage he had just hijacked, making note of the insignia and colors, now that he wasn’t focused on pummeling an old man, and the road ahead. Richart’s blood ran cold when he realized who he’d just robbed. The irony was written on his face, as he realized he’d just absconded with the lead cart of his favorite NAF team. Richart took notice of a much more important bit of detail: He was bound by his feet. To the back of a horse drawn carriage. Before Richart could reach the ropes around his ankles, he heard the crack of horse’s reigns, and he was off!

Richart lost track of how far they traveled, he knew he was headed back to the caravan they tried to ransack, but the trip seemed so much longer behind the carriage, instead of on top of it. As the cart came to a stop, the only thing on Richart’s mind was how awful his back felt, and probably looked. No thought was given to what this team of savages would do to him for trying to rob them. The door on the carriage Richart was tethered to flung open, and out stepped 3 gigantic men, and a gangley woman holding a lantern. Voices rose, a few cheers, and then silence. Richart closed his eyes, and pretended to be unconscious, hoping his would-be victims would leave him be if he was still out, or at the very least slit his throat quickly while he slept.

Warmth washed over Richart’s face, even through his eyelids Richart could tell a lantern was in his face. “By Ursun! Look at this guy’s face! He wasn’t a bandit, he was a fan!” He heard a deep Kislevite accent exclaim. “Stow the ‘was’ he’s breathing!” Richart’s breath caught in his throat, they were onto him, but his tattoos might save his life tonight. “Aye, he hits like an Orc. Open your eyes, you second rate cut purse, I want you to look at the man who’s jaw you just broke.” Richart was dragged to his feet, becoming suddenly aware of the searing pain shooting through his back and legs as his tattered clothes touched his mangled back.

“What did you think you were doing tonight, boy? Do you know you just attacked the man in charge of filling the purses of 13 of the meanest men and women this side of the Great Sea?” the old man in front of Richart asked as he held his jaw, his hand dripping with blood from his mouth. “Why are we asking him anything? He should be hanging from a tree by now, giving him a ‘Lustrian birthday party’.” he heard the scornful input of a woman with a loose, well traveled Reikspiel accent grumble not to anyone else but Richart and herself. Richart didn’t know what she meant but later came to learn that it involved a rope, a blindfold, and a stick.

Richart might have been able to talk himself out of this, he thought. His tattoos that had been the cause for his sudden change in lifestyle might be his saving grace. “I wanted an autograph.” Richart mumbled, attempting and failing miserably to look sincere. The team broke out in uproarious laughter, dropping Richart flat on his back. His howls of pain cut the laughter short, as the bear-esque Kislevite unbound the rope around Richart’s ankles. “With a hit like that, you you’re better off playing the good sport instead of watching it.” the bear man said to Richart, making no effort to help him off the ground. “Aye, he’ll play alright. He needs to pay us back for what his little friends ran off with, and for my teeth he knocked onto the road, Shallya willing they can fix my jaw at the Gate. And if he has any objections, he’ll accompany us on our trip from the outside of the carriages.”


Richart is a monster of a man, with the reach of an Ogre. His NAF career was one littered with gold and glory, and enough blood to sate Khorne himself. Richart filled a lot of roles over his career, and he thanks himself every day for doing more than blitzing. Finding himself in Helmgart he feels right at home beating the life out of packs of Skaven. It’s like he never left the astro-granite.

Richart began his NAF career front and center of the wall of conflict. “Road Rash” fell naturally into his role as a lineman. Being a bully was something that Le Sieve wasn’t just good at, but almost savored. He took immense pleasure at cold-cocking whoever wasn’t looking at him on the line, making sure to give a swift kick to anyone he had to step over. Being a Bretonnian noble by birth, players often tried to claim bounties on Richart’s head on the field and off. Richart started hiding mail bracers under his leather guard to fend off poking daggers and slashing claws. While good for defense, a good smack from Richart’s already deadly forearms had more than a small number of players unwillingly signing with coach Tomolandry the Undying.

Lineman is Richart’s starting career and tank class. With his experience on The Line, Richart’s effective block range and radius is greatly increased. Richart knows how to take a hit, and knows how to give one back just as hard, for every stamina shield break, Richart gains a charge of “Atlas”, maxing out at 5 charges. Atlas is an ability that empowers Richart’s shove. Everyone in Richart’s effective block range is shoved farther and more effectively for each charge. Max charges of Atlas results in a push capable of giving a Rat Ogre pause. His active is an encouraging shout that gives his allies more attack speed and an extra shield of stamina.

Lineman’s tank class’ special weapon is a pair of specially modified bracers, made for stopping stabbings and knocking his attacker flat. He excels at keeping his team safe behind him, and breaking the evergrowing tide of enemies. He can give a Stormfiend cause to sit down and shut up, as well as make a Chaos spawn drop an ally with a full Atlas’d shove.

Richart “Road Rash” Le Sieve’s pompous attitude is almost matched by his skill in a fight. With his speed and strength, he was a natural fit for a role as a Blitzer. Being a bandit, and knowing what he did of the NAF, he had no delusions of playing fair, hiding blades in gloves that let him rend the flesh of anyone in his way, or unfortunate enough to not be looking at him as he ran by. “Something as large as ‘Road Rash’ Le Sieve should not move that fast, I bet he’d beat a Bloodletter in a footrace if you could keep it from trying to gore him at the starting line!” is Richart’s favorite quote from longtime NAF announcer Bob Bifford.

Blitzer is the second career path of Richart Le Sieve, his passive ability being a damage bonus so long as Richart is moving forward. Excelling at pushing through crowds, narrow hallways are Blitzer Richart’s best friend. Richart acts as a bulldozer instead of a wall in this role. His active ability is a dash that knocks over everyone and everything in his path, if contact with a non man-sized enemy is made, Richart goes for a cheap shot, dealing bleed damage despite armor.

Blitzer is Richart’s DPS class, this class’ specific weapon is Richart’s loaded gloves, using lightning fast swipes to knock enemies clear, not in one piece if he can help it. This career’s place is right behind the shield, clearing the way for his team to move forward through hordes. With wide swipes, he holds his own so long as he has walls or team mates to cover his flanks. It falls short in open areas, and enemies with reach, like Halberd Stormvermin that he can’t approach fast enough.

Richart’s third and final class would be Hooligan. A DPS leadership class, Hooligan returns Richart to his roots as a true blue NAF fanatic. Richart didn’t quite cut it as a player, having pity on the sod they drug through the road, the team cut Richart loose after a few poor games. With his earnings, he bought himself a tavern back in Brionne, a pub dedicated to the NAF and all things Nuffle.

Dedicated to riling his patrons up and getting them drinking more and cheering more, Richart’s trait as an NAF hooligan is to get his team causing more ruckus faster. Increasing movement and attack speed in an area around him, but decreasing ranged accuracy of his allies. Kerellian can fire that bow like an auto-ballista, but will struggle to hit a head.

Placing himself behind the shield for once, he exists to rile up his team, and keep the party pushing forward, Maybe a detriment in some cases, but no one can deny his ability to instigate some good old fashioned violence.

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