"Dredger" Jones

Marshal of the Brotherhood, Clad-in-Brass, Veteran of many Marches


Of average height and build, this old man inexplicably exudes personality, often brash or crass, yet somehow endearing after extended contact. Now 83, this man is obviously not the beefiest of individuals even when decked out in full-plate and his large shield. Often insisting that others slow down while walking or falling asleep while astride his docile old horse, Jones is none the less a force to be reckoned with as pure determination often keeps this elder upon his feet long past when younger men have keeled over from exhaustion. Sometimes a senile old fool, sometimes a cantankerous old man, do not be fooled for in a flash Jones will transform into a mighty warrior fueled by an insurmountable will to protect those in his care.

Even though he is a liability because of his age, supervising officers are often pleased to have Jones in the ranks. Any unit he is deployed with often becomes markedly more effective… after all, who would wants to be out done by such an old man, even if he is the infamous Dredge Jones!


Life was never easy for Jones, but then life as a oyster/fisher-man is never easy for anyone. Then again, it was a life and Jones was content. Some might say that for a life time Jones worked the sea and in return the sun and the winds worked him. His skin was a humble leathery brown with wisps of white hair upon his skull and pale blue eyes. He was a friendly sort of fellow with a good wife and good children, all grown to men with children of their own, all fishermen like their dad. They were often seen talking amiably with others at the Dive, a tidy pub in Amarine, where Jones held court, so to speak. He was knowledgeable about the sea and her moods and many folk came to him for advice, both professional and personal in nature.

Early one morning, before the sun had risen to burn the mists from the water edge, raiders came in long boats with wyvern skin stretched along their sides and fantastical fanged crests upon their prows. The blood thirsty men jumped from their ships, bedecked in heavy fur and copper studs, cold breath streaming from their bearded mouths. The groggy men of Amarine stumbled through their doors to the defense of the town as the raiders laid waste with glinting, notched axes, cutting down the sleepy men, barking dogs, salt-ridden doorways, screaming women and confused children. Amarine never stood a chance. The town was sacked, every living thing butchered or raped and axed. Every building, including the Dive, was razed to the ground never to be rebuilt.

But where was Jones? The old man, in a fright, had simply stumbled out the side door to the beach and waded into the mists of the early morning dawn, then down into the water where he waited out the butchering of his town. He listening to the wails and cries of those he called wife, children, friends and neighbors. Too scared to return to land, he floated with only his face above the waters surface, invisible at first by the morning mists and later by the heavy smoke from the town. Only when night fell did Jones return to shore. In the cruel light of the full moon in a clear sky he saw what had become of his village and he cursed himself for his cowardice. Weeks of grueling work went by as Jones sobbingly laid to rest the remains from the town. By the end the corpses were festering bundles but he steeled himself for his eyes had dried and he had became hard. This would not happen again. Not on his watch.

It was then that a Brother Clad-in-Brass came across Jones who was clothed only in a fiery indignation and his torn rags, filthy from grave digging. They spoke at length about the new god and in the morning Jones simply stood up and went to church. With neither food nor sleep, just the weary trudge of a man incapable of stopping, fueled only by his strength of will, it took more then a month to make the journey to EastHaven. The ragged, sickly, old creature that crawled up the temple steps bore little resemblance to a man, but the clergy gave Jones succor. Here Jones learned the art of war with a single mindedness never seen before. Jones had devoted his life and his pure and furious will to protecting the weak, to Bahamut and his church. That was several years ago, since when Jones, often called the Dredger by his peers, for his tendency to wade into the thickest, nastiest portions of battle, has crusaded for church in many lands. His concordat is to protect his fellow Brothers, defend the weak and to honor the church. In a shining suit of plate mail and a righteous sword in his hand, he is a loyal and noble knight of Bahamut; God help those that stand in his way for there is no mercy for those that would harm his flock.

"Dredger" Jones

In The Steps of Bahamut guynuyda