Name: Real Name: Ira Per Hawkins Current Identity: Wade Cormier Past Identities: Mason Ferrel (1969-1978), Jack Briggs (1978-1982), Liam Zurba (1982-1989), Wade Macneil (1989-1990), Cieran Liles (1990), Joe Thoms (1990-1995), Arne Tomassi (1995-2003), Alan Dussault (2003-2010), Kyle Nells (2010-2012), Wade Cormier (2012- ) Aliases: Leatherneck, Toughman and Hyde. All aliases date back to the 1970's
Race: Caucasian (Technically)
Hometown: Etna, California, USA.
Current Location: Vetluzhskiy, Russia
Weight: 363 lbs
Build: Stocky, thick, barrel chested. Heavy.
Hair Color/Style: None
Eye Color: Rusty Brown
Facial Hair: None
Scars: None noticeable.
Outfit: Loose, baggy clothing. Hoodies, cargo pants, red/black plaid jackets with grey hoods, rain wear, heavy winter coats, steel toed work boots that are far from new with worn toes and stained leather.
Grew up in a small, mountain town, lead a normal life. Played football as a running back, was good, not not good enough for a scholarship or anything. Learned how to work on cars with his father when he was young, and carried that with him when he went to highschool. When he was 17 however, he got into a rather horrible wreck while racing down a road. split the car in half, one of his good friends in the passenger seat died on impact when the tree took his place. Best friend in the back seat was rendered paraplegic, who was also the school's star quarterback. No one quite understood how Ira was alive, and walking. The doctors and nurses were shocked at how quickly he recovered from his injuries.
That year, they lost the championship in their league of football, and his teammates blamed him for killing the star quarterback. At first they beat the living tar out of him, and left him tied in a shed over night. They were going to free him after that...but when they returned, it was like they hadn't so much as scratched him the night before. Furious, afraid, and in disbelief, they beat him down again, and fueled by liquor and adrenaline, the tied him to the back of someone's truck, and dragged him 12 miles along a gravel road. He recovered, eventually, but his appearance was now, quite different. His skin thickened, almost scaly. He exacted revenge on the former teammates, accidentally killing one of them before disappearing.
Since he left home, Ira has lived in the shadows of the world, from living in a forest for two years, and racking up two deaths from bad mushrooms and being hit by a rockslide, to living in abandoned buildings, and struggling to find work to feed himself. A lot of his childhood notions of right and wrong have been shattered over time, but he still tries to cling to the core tenets of good vs evil, and right vs wrong. He's been forced to steal food to keep himself going. He's been forced to kill on a number of occasions from anti-mutant groups hunting him, to perhaps his worst stroke of luck of being mistaken as an ally to a thief by a superpowered do-gooder who had a very zealous streak to him.
However, it always seems like when he's at his lowest, moments before the tenets he clings to finally wither into dust; something comes and renews just a little hope in him. The most empowering, and longest lasting of which was many years ago. It started back in 1971 when he was nineteen and after the rockslide incident, he made his way our of the mountains into Redding. He began living in an abandoned miner's shack on the outskirts of town. Around this time, he didn't appear too "different" to normal people, just his skin looked thickened, like he was covered in a giant callous. He got himself a job at the local lumbermill and was doing fairly well until one night, when his house was destroyed by the collision of two men, a young Joseph Carter and the man known as Buzzsaw (no one really knew why he called himself that, he was just your typical strong guy). Buzzsaw had managed to get the drop on Joseph until Ira, awakened by two jackasses crashing into his abandoned shack, got up and cracked Buzzsaw over the head with a cast iron frying pan. Thus ending his less than illustrious criminal career.
Joseph Carter, eighteen and with the power of magnetism, and Ira Hawkins decided to team up and be the "Defenders of Redding". And truth be told, they did damned well for themselves and the young, growing city. For the next seven years, they had a tremendous run in learning how to fight, how to work together, and were even rewarded by the city for keeping their streets safe in 1976. By then, Joseph had become known as Magnetron. Ira had several nicknames spawned by the press; Leatherneck, Toughman, and finally Hyde, recalling his growing "disfigurement". Ira was able to buy a car in 1976, a Toyota Celica Liftback GT. Not an expensive car by any means, but a good looking car that worked. 1977 however, was a turning point. Redding's streets were safer than practically anywhere else. Magnetron and Hyde, the Defenders of Redding were heroes. This publicity helped to fuel Redding's population boom from the 16,000 or so when Ira arrived, to 46,000 (with the annexation of a neighboring town). Following this population, and fame....was a small band of "anti-vigilantes". A group of powered thugs who saw the end of organized crime in the future due to the success of these self-styled "Heroes".
This group had a systematic plan, that was rather well thought out. Two female members stalked the two Heroes to learn about them and their habits, and then installed themselves in their lives, quickly becoming "girlfriends". Magnetron's girl was Evelyn, and the girl who became Hyde's relationship was Cassandra. Evelyn began seeding Joseph's ears with words of honey coated lies, saying that Hyde was jealous of his popularity in the town. Truth be told, Hyde sort of was. But he also understood why; Joseph was a poster boy if there ever was one; Young, charming, good looks, able to fly and wield magnetism. He even had a sharp costume. Hyde on the other hand...well, was becoming rather ugly, his power wasn't all that flashy; many saw him as sort of a body guard to Magnetron. Cassandra meanwhile, fueled this jealousy in Ira, pointing out how many times he'd been shot, hurt, and injured while Joseph usually got out of anything without a scratch. How the public liked Joseph much more.
After the women had a few months to work, the rest of the anti-vigilantes started their smear campaign. Colouring the public's view of their heroics. Shortly after, two destructive "Villains" appeared. They stole little, but damaged a lot. In short order, nearly half of Redding began to decry the Defenders. Meanwhile, they were beginning to fall apart themselves. Everything came to a head in 1978. Joseph's ego, fueled by Evelyn came to a head. He demanded to be made Mayor of Redding. By force. Ira, after a two hour showdown that destroyed three city blocks, and several hundred thousand in assorted property damage, brought Joseph down. Hard. He had killed his first partner, and the best friend he ever had. Three minutes later, he looked up into the two dark holes of a twelve gauge shotgun.
He survived. It took a week for him to regrow the parts of his brain that were damaged, the bone structure of his skull, and all of his face. A week of sheer agony. But he survived. On the sixth day, he opened his eyes to the gasping astonishment of a little girl who was crouched on stairs that lead into the dark basement, and then disappeared. Moments later, a man, three years younger than Ira himself came downstairs. His name was Kinsley Morgan. He was a doctor and had found Ira's body in the street where the people had left him for dead. Kinsley revealed that he had a massive respect for Ira and the things he had done for Redding. Kinsley had been 18 when Ira joined up with Joseph, and started cleaning up the streets. The pair had actually saved Kinsley during an attempted robbery, where Ira had jumped into the line of the gunman's aim intended for Kinsley himself. Seeing someone jump, without hesitation into the path of bullet for a stranger, to willingly take that pain and risk of death astonished the young man. While he knew he couldn't be a super hero, he could do something for people, and went to university to become a doctor. Now here he was, a wife, a daughter, and a good practice. Saving the people the Defenders never could.
For another week, Ira stayed with Kinsley, regaining his strength as the anti-vigilantes revealed themselves to Redding. Gloating in their victory. Ira left after that week. Leaving Kinsley and his family with what remained of his tattered jersey and badge, his uniform, and a note; "You're the real Defender of Redding, Kinsley."
For twelve years, Ira remained kept himself out of the light. The only thing he kept, was his Celica. Occasional situations forcing his hand in saving someone, or being stabbed in the back by those he tried to trust. Until in 1990, he dragged back into the spot light for a brief period of time.
In twelve years, his body had changed quite a bit, most of his skin turning to the dark rusty-brown scutes, making him look lizard-like, but lacking the heavier plating and scales of his current stage in life. He found himself in Lubbock, Texas. He had found work as a graveyard shift cleaner of a local school. Hired by someone who didn't mind his outward figure. He was at a grocery store, getting some food in the early morning, when he had just gotten off work. He suddenly heard the alarm as the store had just been robbed. He was there, it seemed like a small issue that he could deal with without attracting much attention; he charged out after the thugs. Only to find the three of them laid out on the ground, bleeding from wounds caused by a man who appeared to have blades for arms. Instantly Ira was mistaken for one of the criminals, and the young "Dark Blade" went after Ira.
Ira quickly subdued the young Hero, and then ran home. Figuring he'd get groceries the next day. Dark Blade however was infuriated. He got the drop on Ira the next day, and managed to sever Ira's right arm. Ira managed to get away, and stay low for three days before he ran into a young man known as Jake Collins. Jake happened to be the Dark Blade. Instantly throwing away his secret identity to catch this "ruthless criminal", Collins went after Ira. He was enraged, having been defeated, and then having this freak escape him....he refused to let that happen a third time. Their fight lasted an hour, and left several people injured in its wake as Ira tried to lead Collins away from people. But it seems like Collins had somehow increased his skills drastically in those three days. Eventually, Ira was able to knock the kid out. He went straight to his boss, and told him that he was leaving. Trying to just get away from the insanity.
A month later and in Dallas, Dark Blade showed up once more. Fully unhinged and with Ira's old boss' head in hand, claiming he was Ira's "Crime Boss". The kid seemed to have somehow increased his skills drastically once more. Practically cutting Ira to ribbons as he realized that the kid also had some kind of power to rapidly learn from his own mistakes. Couple that with his shattered ego and mental state, Ira quickly realized that this kid might finally kill him. How? He wasn't sure, but if anyone was going to, this kid might accomplish it. No longer a fight over right or wrong, mistakes or not. It was down to pure life or death. Subdue him now and leave him, and he would still hunt him to the ends of the earth, and come back stronger than Ira could possibly hope to defeat. Leading Collins into a construction site, finally away from people, Ira tried to come up with a plan to take down someone who seemed to be faster, stronger, and more skill then he himself. Finally, Ira gained the upper hand by practically letting Dark Blade get a hacking cut into his shoulder, where the blade became trapped in the dense bone and muscle. Locking the blade-arm into his shoulder with his free arm, he shoulder rushed Jake Collin's into stack of rebar, impaling the young man to death.
By then, news helicopters were on the scene, broad casting the battle between the two mutants. Ira managed to get home and escape. Fleeing to the north. Trying to get away from the blood that had been spilled in his past. For thirteen more years, he has tried to remain under the radar of the world. Living in the shadows. Moving sporadically to try and prevent the chances of someone getting hurt. In desperation to escape the law, he has fled from America for the anonymity of foreign shores for the past fourteen years.
Personality: Ira was raised to be a selfless, giving, caring young man. Frequently his cynicism gets in the way of his better nature, but he tries to keep an open mind about everyone and everything. However, vengeance is not above him. Desires a better life. Wishes he could trust people to not try to kill him, or get the police to hunt him down for no reason at all.
Medical Conditions: Nothing harmful, however his physiology has been mutating to such a degree that it is debatable as to whether or not he is still even classifiable as Homo Sapiens.
Powers: Reactive Adaptation and Regeneration. In essence, whenever Wade is injured, his body regenerates, and makes that area harder to hurt the next time. Over his 64 years of life, Wade has been injured so much, that his skin is no longer skin, having hardened itself past normal animal hide, and into hyper-keratinized bony scutes akin to alligator/crocodile skin in some areas, loose scales of keratin akin to that of a pangolin, and the most heavily damaged areas of his body have formed sheets of very thick chitin, layered with enamel. These sections appear on his legs, forearms, and sections of his skull. In addition, his muscles and bone structure have become denser to support the added weight, and from the numerous impacts and broken bones he has been subjected to, his ribs especially are reinforced, with splayed ends for greater connection to cartilage. He has begun growing muscle structures throughout his body around his various blood vessels, that can seal off arteries and veins, preventing substantial blood loss.
A side effect of Wade's regeneration and adaptations is, he is quite strong and has phenomenal endurance*. While his strength is not an ability in and of itself, Wade could comfortably compete with the highly trained athletes of "Worlds Strongest Man" competitions. One other thing to note, is that it does seemingly extend his life, as Wade does not show the typical signs of aging a regular 64 year old would**.
Weaknesses: The most obvious, is that Wade's ability is permanent. He can not change back into a human-looking form. He is permanently a "monster". His abilities are also not instantaneous, it takes time for his body to adapt to a damaging stimulus. His regeneration is quick, but it is not of the same caliber as say, the Character of "Wolverine" for a reference point. Other, notable weaknesses are: Wade cannot swim. Due to his compact mass and density, Wade is incapable of floating on water. If however, he tried half-drowning himself a couple dozen times, it is believe that his body would figure out a way for Wade to adapt to the environment. His sense of touch is almost non-existent and his ability to feel temperatures is muted, and extremely delayed except for his sensitive organs such as his mouth, nose, and eyes. From sheer mass, and body shape, he is not that fast of a runner, his overall flexibility is also rather poor.
*While Wade does have phenomenal endurance, he does suffer from exerting himself in the form of heat buildup in his body. The same skin that protects him from feeling a burst of flame, also inhibits the removal of waste heat energy he generates. This can force him to take a break from physical exertion, lest he fall unconscious.
** Wade is not immortal, drown him, burn him to ash, cut off his head, asphyxiate him, etc and he will die. Caveat however, is that all brain activity must end. Also, partial skull/brain tissue loss, vast portions of body tissue loss, while not technically killing him, would render him effectively dead in game time terms, as it can take over a month to regenerate 1/2 his brain from nothing. IE, good as dead.
Accomplishments: Surviving, saving the life of a teenager who repaid the favor years later after becoming a doctor. Saving a young homeless super girl from killing herself, and helping to stabilize her psychosis somewhat. Other small acts of stopping small time, violent crime.
Failures: Having to kill his best friend, and several other people in self defense.
Likes/Dislikes: Likes: 1970s, 80s, and 90s rock, metal, and alternative music. Solitude. Protecting people in need. Whiskey, Bourbon, Tequila. Dislikes: People with "plans", predators, people who want to use him. Modern R&B/Pop music. Beer.
Treasures: Wade has a small tin cookie can from the 70's with faded, worn paint, and rust at its seams. Inside the tin, is a collection of artifacts he has collected; mementos of his triumphs and failures that trace him through history. He keeps a copy of all of his false identities, along with his original drivers license and birth certificate. He has three photographs of him and Joseph; the first is a polaroid faded from the years of two young men laughing at the edge of a lake, on the bottom is written in faded black marker; 72, the second as their alter egos, a professional print that has lasted fairly well, written on the back; 74, and the final one just them hanging out on a sunny afternoon in front of the Celica, the back scrawled in a different writing, "Nice car Ira! Proud to be your friend and comrade, Joseph Carter" Under that in the same printing as the others: 76. A yellowed, folded, and mildly stained scrap of news paper from the Redding Record Searchlight that detailed the day of the conflict between Magnetron and Hyde. Several other newspaper clippings in various states of yellowing and decay. A small folding knife with a blade half rusted and pitted, a blank black button, a highway patrol officer's badge, and a blood stained half of an apron folded neatly.
Height: 5'9" Weight: 153 Hair: Black Eyes: Dark Green Skin: Pale torso with a light tan on her forearms and face Tattoos: A barbed wire coiled around her right bicep/shoulder area, overlaying a bed of roses. Done in plain blue/black int. On her abdomen she has the word "Sisu" done in stylized lettering, bracketed by a pair of stars. Piercings: 8 Gauge, stainless plugs with celtic knotwork blasted onto the ends. Small stud in her left nostril. Scars: Small scar on her lower right abdomen, just beneath the abdominal muscles, roughly 2.5 inches long and faint from having her appendix removed when she was 12. Her right knee bears a patch of scar tissue three inches vertically, and half an inch wide at the top, tapering down to about a quarter of an inch at the bottom, slightly askew. Numerous small scars on her hands, and forearms from her profession.
Occupation: Diesel mechanic Specialization: Heavy duty diesel engine mechanic
Notable skills: Welding: Kiva has been welding since she was 12, under her father's tutelage. She started out with an old 220V MIG welder, and has since learned how to use Arc welders, Tig welders, even battery welders (wire a couple of 12v batteries together, and you can strike an arc). She is mostly an at home welder, welding on her truck, or making metal sculptures. Mechanic: Obviously with her job, she has learned a good deal of how to fix and tune an engine. Her specialty is diesel, but she knows her way around gasoline engines almost as well. She is also fully capable of rebuilding manual and automatic transmissions, axles, and pretty much any other part on a car, including body work. Firearms Use: Having been around firearms for most of her life, she is comfortable with them, and does not exhibit "chick lean" when firing. Kiva's experience is purely with semi-automatics and bolt actions. She is a decent shot with a rifle, but a horrible shot with a pistol. Photography: Photograph is a fairly recent hobby, that she got into just a year and a half ago after one of her best friend's friend, asked her to model for them. She wasn't doing any gallery shows yet, but might have in a year or two if she found the time. Driving: Working to dispel the "Women Driver's" myth, Kiva is a fairly decent driver, and frequently challengers her low speed driving skills off road in her Suzuki.
Senses: Nonexistent, Bad, Below Average, Average, Above Average, Good, Acute
Sight: Bad. Kiva is near sighted, and requires her glasses to be able to see clearly past 50 yards.
Smell: Good. She never understood why, but she seems to be able to smell things long before others do.
Touch: Above Average
Sound: Below Average. Kiva has some mild hearing loss from her lifestyle of loud trucks, loud music, loud guns, and loud working environment.
M1 Carbine, with a total of three, 30 round magazines (one in the rifle, two in the outside pocket of her camera bag), and a pair of 15 round magazines kept in the pouch on the stock of the rifle. A box of ammunition in her backpack that still holds 36 29 rounds out of the fifty it started with.
30mm Wrench on a sheet metal bracket she hammered out of some scrap metal to hold it on her belt.
Leatherman MUT multitool Quark Tactical QT2A Modified paintball mask
A smaller hiking backpack with camelback
Small multifuel stove, with nested cookset.
A large ziplock bag full of rice, one of oats, one of beans, one of granola, one of trail mix, a bag of beef jerky, and one of mixed dried fruits.
Two energy bars
Spare set of glasses
Roll of toilet paper
MP3 player and headphones
Nikon D70 camera with 50mm lens, and a 80-200mm lens in a small camera pack around her waist.
Older, RAZR phone.
A photograph of her father, and her father and mother's wedding photo.
Key to her father's gun safe.
Collapsible fishing rod, and tiny tackle box.
Cheap pair of 10x binoculars, foldable.
Kiva has long been the kind of girl who had a tendency to be more hands on than other girls. Likely coming from the fact that she was raised by her father after her mother passed away from breast cancer when she was four. Her father, a mechanic, and avid firearm collector instilled these virtues in his daughter. When she turned fourteen, she got her first car, a 1976 Toyota Celica, that she restored with the help of her father. Unfortunately the car was destroyed two weeks after her sixteenth birthday/getting her license when someone ran a red light and punted the car's passenger side front fender.
When she got out of highschool, she immediately went into the local tradeschool, picking up several classes, and eventually dropping a couple of them down to the two she liked most; Diesel Mechanics and welding. She got into paintball when her boyfriend at the time introduced her, and carried on playing after the shitbag cheated on her. She found the sport fun and it appealed to her more aggressive nature.
The day the outbreak started in St. Louis, Kiva was working at her job in truck maintenance facility when National Guard came to warn people of the outbreak. She grabbed her multitool and one of her larger wrenches, and started to make her way home. The first time an infected found her, it nearly killed her. The sheer desire to kill was overwhelming, and she lashed out with the wrench, fear adding to her strength and she felt the wet crushing of bone as the arm of the thing went half limp. The second blow caught it in the mouth, the third caught it in the left ear and dropped it, after it sprayed her with blood, saliva, and shattered teeth. Once home, she quickly stripped and washed the filth off, nearly taking her clothes and burning them, before thinking twice about sending out a smoke signal. She fabbed the holster for her wrench, and then...waited. She already knew that trying to get out of the city was flat out suicide, and besides, she wanted to get out with her father if she could. The second day, she waited, and worried as her father never showed. The night she was so nervous she couldn't eat. Sick with fear and worry. She didn't know if he had been evacuated or dead, or injured somewhere and needing help; she just knew that if he hadn't shown up now, he likely never would.
Having heard the report on the radio, looping endlessly, she figured it was likely the best bet. Picking up her Carbine, and spare ammunition, she locked her father's gun safe and took the key with her. Her first stop was to a small sporting goods store. It was looted as much as she figured; most of the packs were gone, ammunition was scarce as hell in the common calibers, but the less common/less used were still on the shelf like 6.5x55 Swede, though the .30 Carbine was missing unfortunately. Yet she was still able to grab a few things, like a decent backpack, the stove and cookset, and collapsible fishing rod. Her second stop was at a grocery store. The shelves were flatout empty, except for a few glass bottles of things like pickles, or mustard that had been smashed on the ground, paper products, the cleaning supplies and the like. The one foods that hadn't been touched much, were the bulk containers. With a looted set of ziplock bags, she began collecting some food supplies to last her for a while. A few other things were picked up, and she began making her way towards the arch.
Kiva is a rather intelligent young woman, with a bit of whimsical artist about her (How many other people drag a DSLR around during the end of human life just to take pictures of the end of the world?). She is pretty open, but does not accept people trying to treat her like shit. When it comes to people disrespecting her without reason, she has a tendency to get in their face about it. Currently though, she is grieving for the loss of her father.....and a bit for the rest of the world as a whole. Hard not to feel something when corpses litter the street. She is also, currently a bit lost; all of her plans for her life are suddenly no longer viable, and she is trying to form some plan on how to survive this disaster.
- Physically Fit: Due to her job and hobbies, Kiva is not the typical 22 year old girl who can barely lift 30 lbs. She has to be able to take care of herself around heavy machinery, and takes pride in the fact that she can lift and carry over a 160 lbs, more than her own body weight. She is also a light jogger, finding having endurance a useful ability when playing paintball in the woods.
- Creative: Kiva is known for thinking a little outside of the box at times, coming up with a solution to a problem that others hadn't considered. Sometimes her ideas work, sometimes they don't.
- Right Knee. When she was 13, Kiva broke her right knee pretty severely while riding her bike. It used to hurt any time she ran or worked it hard, but has since managed to get strengthen the joint that it lets her do a modest workout without excruciating pain. But if she has to run for her life for long distance? It is going to start hurting, and will eventually force her to stop.
Born into the Dwarven Merchant family of the Formwelds, he had a nice childhood, growing up as a middle child. As he grew, he proved himself to be quite intelligent, learning things at an astonishing rate. His first apprenticeship was with his father as a Blacksmith, then he learned a bit of weapon and armorsmithing as well. Eventually though, he got curious about other trades when he had become a competent blacksmith that he began branching out, trying a bit most crafts, professions, to get challenge himself to become better. Eventually however, roughly when he turned 55, he decided to return to the honest, hard work of the blacksmith, with a few other talents he'd picked up along the way. He bought himself a wagon and a couple of good light horses, Marden and Brutko.
Of course, this is how he appears to the average person. In truth, he is smarter than he even appears, he knows more languages than what he lets on, pretending only to be able to speak Dhamadein, Dwarven, Bradish and Stygian. Yet he can speak all of these languages fluently, plus the Radlein and Famish. His lockpicking and trap disablement skills came from his love of locksmithing, a trade he frequently plies on shady deals away from the eyes of the public, helping criminals crack into items they may not want to damage.
In business, he is a smart, and cunning tactician; always seeking to make a profit and advance his name in stature. He refrains from outright brutality and holds himself to a code of honour that he has made of utmost importance to himself:
1: I will not harm an unarmed man, unless they strike me first.
2: If at all possible, avoid violence. It is bad for business.
3: Thievery is bad for business, it breeds enemies.
4: Avoid making enemies, enemies are bad for business.
5: I will not harm a woman or child, unless they seek to endanger me.
6: I do not tolerate rape. I never shall rape anyone, nor shall I harbour a rapist.
7: I do not tolerate kidnapping, I shall never kidnap anyone, nor shall I harbour a kidnapper.
Yet, all is not as it appears, for Durkha is actually Wrogan, an orphan without known kin. Raised by the Hearthforge family in their orphanage, originally sold once as a slave, he escaped and had the brand removed as he ran from a life as a mediocre slave miner, knowing himself to be far more brilliant than what life held for him. How he became Durkha Formweld is a simple tale of having stumbled across a scene of banditry against a small trader's caravan, he joined the fight to help save the traders. Even though they were out numbered, they were able to drive off the bandits, though the men had lost several of their number, most eerie however, was that once of the fallen was a Dwarf, roughly Wrogan's own age, and so close in appearance that they could have been twins. Wrogan swore to the dying dwarf that he would take his effects to his family, so and let them know he had fought bravely. Weeks later, entering the home land of Durkha, Wrogan was greeted several times as if he was fallen Dwarf, thus the night before he would arrive at Durkha's family's, he decided to do something despicably wrong, and took Durkha Formweld's name as his own. He had Durkha's identity papers, he had his wagon...there was nothing to truly stop him from leaving behind the no-name identity of Wrogan behind, and the next morning, he left town without ever greeting Durkha's parents, instead, he taught himself forgery and soon sent them a letter stating that he had been in a caravan raid, and taken a crossbow bolt to the shoulder, but that he was fine and would continue traveling to increase their wealth. He has thus never returned to the Formweld Family, only communicating through letters.
Or is that really the truth? A brilliant orphan seeking a better life, even going to the length of taking the name of a dying man?
No. The truth is much more sinister than "Durkha" would ever let on. No one even knows the Wrogan "story", and if he has his way, he would never have to utter the name "Wrogan" ever in his lifetime. But this is the twisted mind of a brilliant Dwarf, one in which he has a compelling hidden identity that hides behind his false identity.
For behind the mask of Durkha Formweld lies someone else entirely; Khanden Crysflame. The Crysflame name is fairly famous for being one of the foremost authorities on glassblowing and crafting. The Crysflame Clan has long held a prestigious position in the glassware industry because of their techniques, skill, and craftsmanship. Several years ago, Khanden was the second son of the heads of the family. His elder brother, Vadrin, had long had a wasting illness, leaving him bedridden for most of his life. Khanden's father had been training Khanden as the next head of the family, in case his brother should finally perish. His father was impressed with his drive, intelligence, and cutthroat attitude to business, similar to his own. Yet in Khanden's thirtieth year, a wandering Kobold shaman with a pair of goblin assistants, came to their home, offering to cure Vadrin for but a sample of rare crystal from the family mine.
During the year that the Kobold, named Koel Pyonis, stayed, working to cure his brother, Khanden spoke with the shaman numerous times, curious about what the Kobold knew, as the creature was ancient by terms of Kobolds, withered and gnarled, with twisted horns rising from his skull, pierced with occult trappings, and having scarred symbols in his flesh mixed with tattoos and brands.
In the final months of Koel's stay, Vadrin was better, stronger, and more alert than he had been his entire life. Swiftly attention was turned towards Vadrin's education, to teach him the necessary skills and knowledge to be head of the family, leaving Khanden as an advisor, or to train, as traditional in the family, as a craftsman. Khanden knew his father thought that he would make a better head of the family, and so began a plan that came to fruition three months later. He staged an accident in a glass making plant that the family ran, killing his brother. He thought his plan was flawless, but youth, inexperience, and arrogance conspired against him. He was found out within the month, and disowned, and exiled from the family as a disgrace.
Khanden quickly formed himself a new identity as Borgodin Stonefell. He began exploring different trades, cultures, and peoples as he learned numerous tricks and abilities as he wandered, slowly formulating an idea. It wasn't until he literally bumped into a fellow dwarf who was damn near identical to himself that the idea, became a plan. He stalked the dwarf for a two years, learning his patterns, what he did for a living, who he was. Khanden then went to learn the trade his soon to-be identity practiced, and before long, set into motion a raid on the caravan that Durkha was part of. With the help of bandits, he killed Durkha and stole his identity out of cold blood, and has been living in the skin of a dead man for over twenty years now. He has intentionally avoided contact with Durkha's family, waiting for their memories of his appearance to fade enough that any dissimilar looks could be sworn off as age and memories, and for quirks or ticks that the real Durkha possessed to have faded from memory just the same. Even so, he has been slowly raising the wealth of the Formweld family, sending "home" increasing amounts of business and clients. Strengthening his stolen family, to further pursue his ultimate goal; The ruination of the Crysflame name, the destruction of their businesses, and to eventually take it over by force and cast his parents out broke and destitute as they did to him, then to rebuild it more powerful than it ever was, just to prove his point: That Khanden Crysflame was the rightful heir of the family, and that Vadrin was rightfully disposed of.
Name: Rust (Suvi Soccoli - Forgotten)
Age: Unknown (Awakened Estimated to be between 100-150 years old. Was 22 when he perished)
Race: Intelligent Skeleton
Nothing more than a walking skeleton of a long dead human male, his bones the color of aged parchment with dark stains mottling his lower half. The only noticeable deformity, being the ragged gash broken through the left side Lacrimal bone and into his left eye socket of what must have been the blow that killed him, countless years ago. However, he wears what was once an ornate suit of armor that would have been worth a Knight's share, now a ruin of its former glory, though cleaned. Pitted and showing signs of metal erosion, the runes that were once engraved, now illegible and lost. Inlay and filigree eroded to dust. A few desiccated scraps of leather remain, while new works of leather and chain have been added, to hold the ill-fitting suit to his bony frame.
Tolerant, and accepting, Rust is fairly relaxed about the choices of others. He holds himself however, to a strict code of honour, in protecting those who need it, and defending himself only when his own existence may be threatened. Hard to anger, and hard to unsettle, yet he is deeply concerned about his own self in the means that he desires to understand his own memories.
Abilities: Due to the fact that he is a skeleton, he has no flesh to be harmed, and no flesh to fuel, absolving him of the need to breathe or eat. He is powered by something beyond his knowledge, be it a soul, magic, or some natural phenomena he has no understanding of. Because he has no muscles, he cannot tire from work; yet he has a mind that needs rest to process what he encounters, although less time than most people. His lack of flesh and organs conspires to him lacking a great deal of mass, weighing a scant twenty-seven pounds without his armor or weapons, while the metal, wood and leather add only sixty-four pounds to his mass. Through reasons unknown, his strength matches that of the strongest men. Combining his strength, with his extremely little weight, enables him to move much quicker than many would expect. Strangely, he does weigh a bit more on average than a normal skeleton, and his bones seem to be tougher than the average bones of normal skeletons. Damage dealt to his form is regenerated, but not instantaneously. When dismembered, he is able to retain control of his limbs within a rough twenty foot radius, and awareness of where his limbs are within a hundred foot radius.
With his lack of skin, flesh and organs, comes a complete void of his sense of smell or taste. His sense of touch is reduced to a vague notion of pressure, which make it hard for him to gauge how tightly he holds something, or how hard he is hitting something. He can't tell if something is smooth, or rough very easily at all. As well, his feathery weight makes it phenominally easy to push him around in the physical sense. It is easy to lift him from the ground and cast him aside. Without connective tissue, he is relatively easy to be dismembered. Perhaps his biggest weakness (besides being a highly unnatural, walking, talking skeleton), is that his mental state isn't the most stable, as his memories, his very identity is shattered. He does not know who he is, what he is, why he is, or where he is. He doesn't understand a lot of the technology that currently exists (Would probably be more baffled by it if he DID remember his old life).
Ancient sword of once phenomenal quality, now broken, fractured, and pitted from a century of neglect. Currently cleaned and oiled to protect it from further degradation, and contained in a rather plain, modern, leather scabbard slung diagonally on his back.
Modern, single edge sabre of decent quality, retained at his left waist.
Well made Yew longbow, carried unstrung in a scabbard attached to his quiver.
Quiver/pack: A quiver designed to carry 48 shafts, along with a number of pouches contained a supply of arrowheads for making replacement shafts, tools to make more shafts themselves, or a replacement bow as necessary. Spare bow strings. Sharpening stones, two bottles of vegetable oil.
Pain, light, and sensation jolted him awake. Rust woke to find himself leaning against the shattered remains of a castle wall, his legs and lower abdomen buried under the soil and roots of the bramble thicket that had tendrils hooked into his eye sockets. Seeing his skeletal arm for the first time as he attempted to scratch the offending vegetation from his face was a violent shock of realization...mixed with abject terror and utter confusion. He didn't know why, but he knew something was wrong. Soon the realization dawned on him however, he didn't understand what was wrong, because he had no basis to comprehend. When he tried to think, understand, or draw on something...his mind give his brief, fleeting flashes of light, colour, abstract shapes that meant nothing. He knew, somehow, they were memories. It was something important. But it was like being trapped within a frosted glass bottle in the middle of a lightning storm while stained glass windows swirled around outside. Nothing make a cohesive form, nothing made a whole. Any time he thought he could focus on a shape, it would simply dissolve from his mind and leave like a dream, slipping through the cracks.
Slowly, he began to dig his way out of the ground, ripping the thick, thorny brambles from his bones, and the scraps of armor that he could not bear to part with. He found the rusted blade underneath himself, and dug it out as well, never knowing why he bothered. Scrambling through brambles and thickets of overgrown wilderness, Rust eventually just started walking. Four and a half months of walking, and he found himself outside Jek. His first approach was rebuffed by a flurry of arrows, and artillery rounds digging into the soil about him. That night, in the dark, the night watch reported the strangest sight; a figure was walking out in the cleared area, picking the arrows, javelins, and round shot from the ground, and stacking it near the road, well within longbow range, but never seeming to attempt to get close to the wall. The next day, they found the Skeleton standing behind the piled ammunition, silently waiting. They fired upon him again, and once more, he returned at night, stacking the ammunition. On the third day, a small party was formed, and a band of defenders left the wall to collect the piled ammunition, and take the skeleton as a prisoner for the time being. It complied.
After weeks of interrogation, it was concluded that the skeleton was obviously intelligent, it spoke, and it could even read, a surprise to both sides of the table. It did not appear to be malevolent nor evil. The only thing it asked for, was to be put to some use. First tasked with cleaning the prison under the watchful eyes of the guards, to loading and unloading supplies. A year passed without incident, and the Skeleton had its belongings returned to it. It soon began taking a place on the outer walls at night, watching for the approach of enemies in the darkness. To the guards of the watch, the skeleton became a comrade, it was quiet, honorable, and never seemed to grow tired of staring out into the darkness. A variety of nicknames was bestowed upon him, but the longest lasting was "Rustle", which eventually was shorted to Rust. He proved himself to be a capable archer, an a strong ally.
Yet his existence away from the wall was less than ideal. He was continually aware that he did not fit in with the populace. They were scared of him, untrusting, some to the point of hating him. Compounding this, he felt a longing to understand just what he was, why he was, and most importantly, who was he? After seeing the notice of the meeting, he decided to make a change. A written note to his commander, explaining his dereliction of duty in utmost detail, was left behind.
Name: Vasco Parra
Rank/Title: Third Sergeant, Military Police of Rio de Janeiro State (PMERJ)
Military Occupational Specialty: Infantry, Special Police Operations Battalion (Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais, BOPE)
Standing 5'9", and weighing in at 182 lbs, Vasco is a fairly heavy-set, broad shouldered, and moderately imposing figure. He keeps his head free of hair, preferring the cooling of being clean shaven, through from his wide brows, it can be seen than his hair colour would be a black/dark brown. His eyes seem a bit small for his face, but are otherwise unexceptionally dark brown. The only distinguishing features would be the small, slightly irregular, round scar on his cheek bone where a drug dealer disposed of his cigarello; the BOPE insignia tattoo'd on his right shoulder, and a set of four of bullet holes in his left thigh (two on the front, two out the back).
Please list with most important skills first.
- Trained at Centro de Instrução de Guerra na Selva (Jungle Warfare Instruction Centre)
- Trained with Comandos and Paraquedista (Commando and Parachutting training)
- Trained in BOPE centre
- Advanced Urban Combat training
- Advanced Jungle warfare training
- Advanced Mountain warfare training
- Parachute training
- Advanced Close combat training
- Holds a Black/Red belt in Jiu-Jitsu
- Multilingual. Knows; Portuguese (Native), English (Fluent), French (Fluent), and Indonesian (Conversational)
- Mk 46 Mod. 0; TA11SDO-CP ACOG 3.5x35 optics, Magpul RVG, Surefire M952V weapon light, Vickers M249 Saw sling (2 point), 6 Crye Multicam ammo bags (200 rounds each, total of 1200 on person. Depending on timing, and mission intel, he is likely to carry up to three different belts: Unmarked is standard 4-1 ball-tracer ratio, Marked with blue stitching will be AP, AP, Ball, Tracer, Marked with white stitching will be 4-1 ball-dim tracer for low-light/night use with night vision systems.) Three heavy barrels are carried (One on gun, two in scabbard on back)
- Sig P226 Combat TB; Surefire x300 Ultra light, 3 spare magazines (15 rounds each, total of 60 rounds of 9mm),
- 2 fragmentation grenades, 2 stun-grenades, 1 smoke grenade
- Condor El Salvador Machete (Carbon steel, 18" blade, micarta grips)
- VCA Tiradentes (Smaller, bushcraft knife)
Crye Multicam uniform, black combat boots, black velcro-closed gloves
Eberlestock Skycrane II (Extended missions), Eberlestock Little Brother 3 day pack; AN/PVS-14 monocular night vision device (attaches to helmet), scabbard for two spare barrels, four pairs of socks, side scabbard for machete, cleaning kit, boresnake, Extra rations, clothing items, foot powder, hand lotion, parachute cord, poncho/liner, ferrosteel rod, small knife sharpening kit (four stones, one for levelling) small water-proof tin of charcloth, small container of black face paint and a mirror, hundred feet of paracord, and a small, old stuffed bear, a memento of his little sister, and older brother. A picture of Oscar, his brother the football player.
Chest rig load bearing vest with dragonscale armor, two pouches for ammo bags, cross-draw kydex holder for P226 on left side of his chest, two double grenade pouches, single grenade pouch, Camelback hydration system, a first aid kit with tourniquet and field dressings, a Gerber multi-tool in a pouch, another pouch with a GPS navigation unit. MICH 2001 helmet with commo, sun/wind goggles attached and NVG attached, writing supplies and paper, small binoculars. Tiradentes knife held in sheath under grenade pouches, left side (grip to the right)
Quarters: ESP WA-200 guitar, Unknown make of used acoustic guitar, Orange Rockerverb 50 MKII amp, Boss Distortion pedal, and a Dunlop Crybaby. iBasso DX50 DAP, Grado SR225i Headphones
At first, reserved and careful around people he doesn't yet know, warms considerably beyond that initial wall. In peace, he's calm, and fairly laid back. Just a man who wants to relax, and let the weight of the world off his shoulders. He does have a strong sense of justice, and a very strict tolerance when it comes to illegal substances (although he can ignore marijuana, he will never partake). He never picked up the taste for beer, but has a keen taste of tequila, cachaca, rum and sake, loves a good barbeque, and enjoys talking about damn near anything that comes to mind for hours on end if given a chance. One of his favorite topics is football (soccer), and like most Brazilians, nearly reveres Pelé as a god-like figure. He also keeps track of his eldest brother, Oscar, who is a current player on the Brazilian national football team. He practices Jiu-Jitsu quite seriously, using it as a tool, and a method of keeping himself sane. He has attained the first rank of the Black/Red belt, but seems to have plateaued for the past two years, he doesn't mind this however, as he feels comfortable in his ability as it is. Vasco listens to a broad variety of music, but mostly centered around metal and hard rock, after he grew up with Sepultra in his teens, spreading into American and European metal, branching out into a bit of folk, and electronic. He's started learning how to play guitar when he was 18, and can often be found (or heard), working on a song cover, or making a riff of his own.
When in the field however, he quickly shifts into a very focused frame of mind. He always wants to get things done, Right. His weapons are kept spotless, but wear is treated as character; his blades are razor sharp, and always have a light coating of oil to ward away rust. His firearms are kept pristine, as he was trained. He is always alert when in the field, and is known for being a coldly ruthless, which comes from being in the BOPE. It was either kill everything, or they will kill you. If you were lucky. If you were unlucky, they would capture you, torture you, and if you were really lucky at that point, they would execute you. In the street. Unlucky? Being strung up, burned alive, butchered, or turned into a bomb. His ruthlessness is not something he is proud of, but it has kept him, and his fellow officers alive. He uses a modified form of Jiu-Jitsu frequently when room clearing, using standing joint locks to quickly, and efficiently disable combatants.
Born in the small town of Porto Vello, Brazil, Vasco was the fourth child of his family. His mother was a housewife, while his father was the head Doctor at the local clinic. Shortly before his eighth birthday, his father applied for a position in Rio de Janeiro, and was awarded the promotion. Life in Rio was a culture shock. Going from a nice family estate in the wilds of the jungle, to the cramped, overcrowded, violent and polluted city was a massive change, but welcome to the young children who knew little better. Living in a nice area of town, Vasco was isolated from the worst of the violence that originated in the favelas, the shanty-towns that climbed the hills surrounding the massive city. It wouldn't take long however, for the violence to find them as his older brother became addicted to cocaine while partying with the other teenagers. When he fell behind in paying his dealer, he came home with a broken arm, and severe contusions on his chest and face. For the next year, his brother was clean, but relapsed 16 months later. This cycle carried on for several years, until Vasco was in highschool. At the age of 13 however, Vasco's little sister committed suicide due to the bullying she received in school. The family quickly began self-destructing with the parents arguing about blame, or carelessness, or anything else they could.
Problem was, his parents never separated, never divorced. Instead, resigning themselves to despising one another while drinking themselves into a stupor nearly nightly. It was a situation the made the children hunger for freedom, desire a way out, any way out. For Vasco, his way out was joining the military. His first taste, lead to a hunger, a desire to be the best. He set his goal to join the absolute best Brazil had to offer; the Special Forces Brigade. He punished him with grueling challenges, pushing his way through his fear of heights to get through parachute training, to advanced infantry and commando training. At twenty two, he was a finely honed soldier, one of the best of his year. Two months before selection for joining the Special Forces Brigade occurred, he received a message from his family, his brother Renan had died in a gang fight. On top of this, he failed to be selected to join the SFB; they had a certain number of slots to fill, and he just wasn't quite as outstanding as the men and women who were selected. Rather than let it leave him twisted, he changed course, and signed on to the BOPE training roster. The training was brutal, designed to weed out the weak, and the corrupt, or the corruptible. Already a hard man, the rigors only strengthened his resolve. Vasco survived, and was selected.
Vasco quickly found himself in a very different kind of military force than almost any other military deployment in the world: He was at war, every week of the year while at home. Calls were frequent; a police officer getting in over his head, a gang war getting touched off, arson, bombing...they happened frequently. Then there were the missions, the planned assaults that took months to prepare for. There were the clandestine incidents that never made the reports, of corrupt police being killed. The BOPE was essentially a 100 man force, fighting against the Police Force that was just as much of a gang itself, as any of the traditional gangs in the favelas themselves.
He would sign on to missions Darfur, Sudan in 2006, with the UN Peacekeepers to take a break from the violence and brutality he fought with in the favelas on a near weekly basis. He spent a year in East-Timor from 2008-2009, combating rebels. He took another tour in Sudan in 2011. In 2012, he succumbed to the realization that trying to stem the corruption that flowed as the city's blood, was like trying to block a river with his body. For every criminal or corrupt officer that turned up as a corpse, three more came from the slums to take their place. The Police had become an institution in indoctrination of corruption that started from the highest levels of the PMERJ. The drug lords always had another dealer, another mule, another look out, another gunman willing to take money for their very soul.
He retired from the BOPE and PMERJ with honor and distinction, but that did him no benefit in the city of Rio. He was a figure of fear and terror, that could not be hired without inviting the wrath of either the Police, or the gangs. After a few months at failing to secure reliable work, he was contacted by an agent of Centurion. A mercenary company looking for highly trained, professionals for work, currently outside of the country. Vasco Parra signed on, the promise of good pay, and a simple job sounded like a winning deal. The training was brutal, similar to the training he had already pushed himself through three times now. Cold, wet, tired, hungry, push yourself past what you once thought were your limits and keep going. He does regard the Mk 46 Mod. 0 as a bit light weight, considering he is used to running around with an HK21E, and 800 rounds of 7.62x51mm strapped to him.
Relationships and Acquaintances (First Impressions): LCPL Ryan Davis: CPL Sara Black: CPL Soraya Karam: SFC Brian Park: SGT Daniel Maimon:
Speech Color: Going to use #cc6633 I think, nice an earthy. Regular font.
Character Alignment: Hero
Growing up has been a bit awkward for Aguta, as he has always stood out to a significant degree; white hair, dark skin, six feet tall when he turned thirteen, and always gaunt. His growth started young, when he was 5 months old, it was determined that he was growing far faster than normal children. His growth slowed down a little, but when he came into puberty, he seemed to suddenly explode upwards. He was 5' tall when he was twelve, and by his thirteenth birthday, he was 6'1". His mother and stepfather took him to see doctors, and specialists, geneticists, onocologists, trying to figure out just what was wrong with Aguta. His giganticism didn't follow normal trends; he had no pituitary gland tumors, nothing was growing disproportionately, he was just growing. He has become a minor celebrity, even in highschool where he was interviewed by a couple of news agencies. Combined with his extremely low mass, he's found himself the center of more attention than he feels he deserves, or wants. He's heard all of the nicknames; stick man, bag of bones, rattler, skeletor, skellington, slenderman's son, plus many others.
Aguta has some trouble coping with just what he is, compounding the already difficult notoriety of his minor celebrity status; he's afraid that at some point, he won't be able to control the Wendigo, becoming like his father. While it seems unlikely, it is a powerful concern for him. Compounding his fortunes in meeting women, beyond his appearance, is his concern of "passing on" this demonic spirit, as his father passed on to him. This has generally led Aguta to be a bit awkward around women in general.
Otherwise, he has learned a great deal from his uncle and his step father, from his belief in honor and vigilance, to outdoors escapes of hunting and survivalism. Thanks to them, Aguta believes that all fights should be made as fair as possible, and sees weakness in those who use underhanded means to gain the advantage. He knows there is a limit though, of when a fight goes from being a contest of strength, and skill, to a war of survival. If it comes down to a life and death battle, he realizes that honor is meaningless if you are too dead to relish in your own glory.
Uniform/costume: He has none, as will be explained in his power's section.
Many years ago, his father was hunting in the remote wilderness of Northern Manitoba with two of his friends, during the early onset of winter. They were hunting Moose and Caribou, looking to fill their freezers for the coming year, when a storm descended on the trio with a fury none of them had born witness to before. The first day was rain and sleet in a torrential downpour, on the second, the storm became a blizzard. For three days the storm raged, trapping them in the wilderness with no way out. When it broke, they dug themselves out, packed up, and began heading back to civilization, when a second storm collided with them. The sheer, unbridled savagery of the storm, made the first pale in comparison. In their haste to get to shelter, their sled loaded with supplies and food was lost.
A month later, Haupta Flank emerged from the woods, the sole survivor of the doomed hunting trip. He refused to speak of what happened, and returned home to his wife. The coming weeks saw changes growing in the man, who normally peaceful, became more aggressive, hungry, and reclusive. After threatening to leave, his wife heard his confession; he had killed, and eaten his two best friends to survive. He had become a cannibal. He agreed to seek counselling and therapy for the trauma he had endured, and to try and overcome the guilt that mired his soul in depression.
But the seed of madness, the twisted seed of the spirit-demon was blossoming within Haupta.
For the first few months, Haupta improved, and soon it became apparent that his wife, Makkitotosimew, was pregnant. Six months into her pregnancy, the night terrors began. Haupta couldn't sleep, he kept talking of something dreadful, monstrous, stalking him in his dreams. A week before Makkito went into labour, Haupta vanished. He was found two days after she gave birth to Aguta; in one of their neighbour's homes, chewing the flesh off of Denise Anderson's right arm. He attacked the police officers, killing two before finally being killed himself. The news never reported the mysterious gouges in the walls, nor just how the two officers had died.
The Wendigo had taken over, but the death of Haupta was not to be the final chapter of this curse. The spirit had made a connection with the sparking soul of a newborn child at its very conception. But this child, through luck, or the boundless adaptive capabilities of the human genome, found a way to quell the monster.
Hero Type: Psychic/Supernatural
Power Level: Street Level
His primary ability is a psychic ability of "spiritual containment." In essence, he he entraps any spirit, soul, or entity that tries to take possession of him. It is an automatic, unconscious self-defense mechanism. If something becomes entrapped within him, he becomes aware of it in his sleep, and can converse with it in his dreams. He can release entrapped entities at will, once he is aware of them. Given time, however, if that entity has other abilities, he may begin to manifest them himself, essentially channeling their power without restriction. (Current Contained entities: Wendigo)
From the Wendigo, he is able to manifest the physical form of the spirit demon; A sixteen foot tall terror of spectral energy that surrounds and envelopes his own body (think spirit mech). He is able to manifest the spirit in full, or in just parts: from just a talon extending from his own finger, to an arm, even just the face if he chooses to instill terror, rather than fight. When manifesting the spirit, he gains its strength in proportion to how visible the manifestation is, he can conjure a shadow figment that is less strong than he, himself is; or he can make the entity solid opaque, and lift up to fifteen tons. The height, long gait, and supernatural essence of the creature, allows him to sprint at up to 60 mph. He gains immense durability when manifesting, in proportion to how strong/visible the spirit is again, mostly due to the fact that he is ensconced in this "armor". His hearing, vision, and smell are also enhanced, but not astoundingly. He gains a slight measure of being able to see heat sources in darkness, his sense of smell becomes akin to that of an average dog's, and his hearing picks up a bit wider range of frequencies. When manifesting, he does become near invincible to cold temperatures, able to feel quite comfortable down to -76 f.
Physically, the bonding between him and the Wendigo has affected him as well; for his height and weight, he bears no fragility, lack of strength, nor susceptibility to illness. Truth be told, he is about as strong, durable, and healthy as an athlete. The only thing really noticeable (aside from his height, emaciated appearance, and pure white hair), is that he is remarkably quick and agile, thanks to his low mass, and good strength. Not super-humanly agile by any means, but better than one would expect from someone who looks as emaciated as he. A side benefit, is that he seems to be able to endure, even thrive in cold temperatures better than most. Even just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, he could live comfortably at 8 degrees Fahrenheit, only finding the cold to become unbearable around -4 degrees.
Strength Level: Normal/15 tons
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal/60
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal/3x
Agility: High Normal/5x
Fighting Skill: Untrained
Heat. Due to the nature of the Wendigo, his tolerance to heat is quite low. He finds 68 degrees to be rather warm, rather than "room temperature", 80+ degrees, and he would prefer to stay indoors. If the temperature breaches 100 degrees, he finds it intolerable, and will quickly suffer the effects of heat stroke.
Well trained in mountain/woodland survival techniques, building fires, shelters, what is safe to eat, etc.
Competent with firearms.
Novice mechanic, and welder.
Makkitotosemiw "Makki" Anderson - Mother.
Enola Anderson - younger half-sister
Kwahu "Kyle" Anderson - younger half-brother
Ira Anderson - Stepfather
Kenneth Boggs - Landlord
Julianne Boggs - Landlord
What can you bring to the RPG?: A unique character, decent writing, and the possibility of a powerless, but gun happy merc villain in the future.
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Yes.
The electronic dial tone gave way to the pulsed vibrato of the notice that there phone on the other end of the line was ringing. A muted crack, before an ecstatic female voice blared into his ear, "Honey!"
"Hey mom, made i-" He sighed in exasperation as his mother cut him off, chittering away so quickly, many people had a hard time understanding her when she got this excited.
"Oh Aguta, I was worried there for a while, you hadn't called when you said you would, so I was getting worried that you might have had an accident in that death trap you insist on driving. Yes yes, I know it's reliable," her tone shifted to apparent sarcasm before bouncing back to the high speed chatter, "but really sweetie, something newer would be so much better for you. You could actually take it to a dealership! And...oh, wait! Enola started her job today, and Kyle is still doing well, he's out with Commander Fergus and their family, he's doing so-OW! Dammit! You stupid piece of sh..errgh, sorry dear, just stubbed my toe. Anyways, have you met someone special yet?"
The groan he emitted was deep and almost thunderous in the tiny bachelor, basement suite. "Jesus mom, no! I just walked in the door, and it is only fourty minutes after seven, and I said that I'd probably get caught in traffic, and I did! Now you know that I'm alive and safe, tell Enola and Kwahu I love them, I gotta run, get unpacking, and get ready to go find a job tomorrow, so....goodnight mom." He could hear her try to stall him even as he hung up. Closing his eyes and hanging his head slightly, causing the thick, shoulder-blade length mass of white hair to shift forward, framing his face that was deeply tan in tone; partially from spending weekends in the sun while hiking and practicing outdoor survival, and partly due to his native american heritage. He dragged in a deep breath and swept the hair back from his face with his broad right hand, his knuckles clunking and scraping on the ceiling, causing him to flinch downwards momentarily. He was tall, exceedingly so; reaching 8'2" in bare feet. Combined with looking as if he were horrifically malnourished and emaciated, weighing a scant 263 pounds, he was a somewhat surprising figure.
He opened his eyes and exhaled, before surveying his surroundings. Small kitchen to his right, fitted with an ancient "apartment" sized stove, with chipped white enamel, while the fridge was a lovely shade of green. The counter was an old laminate, but in surprisingly good condition, still a light tan colour with a spiderweb of dark orange giving it a pattern. The floor of the entrance and into the kitchen was a slightly newer linoleum, of white and grey faux-tiles. To his left, and down a step was the living room, den, bedroom....every other room. The floor was done in cheap laminate flooring, and featured a pair of exposed brick walls; the dull rusty red of the brick, mixed with the pale, semi-transparent white of long ago removed plaster In the far corner of the living room, the ceiling cut in at a diagonal angle, obviously for the stairs for the upstairs landlords to access the remains of their basement, and the shared laundry room. The overall space being a rectangle roughly 20x12' in dimension. Off-set to the livingroom side of the back wall, was the entrance to the micro-hallway that branched in three directions; to the left, the washroom (with a tub and shower surprisingly), to the right was a good sized closet for storage, and in the center, with a deadbolt on the door? Laundry room. He was happy he got this place, as it had something that was otherwise nearly impossible to find in his price range: Storage space. The fact that the landlord was a bit of a gearhead and fellow hunter, was probably the entire reason Aguta was chosen as a tenant.
Picking the thermarest and sleeping bag up off the floor in their compression sack bundles, he tossed them to the floor in the Living-sleep room, and then stooped to snatch the handles of the duffel bag, and with a slight exhaling grunt of strain, hoisted the ninty pound sack of clothes and necessities, and walked over to the closet, leaning over to counterbalance the load. With the door open, he settled the heavy bag onto the carpet square that was in the large storage area, and looked around the dim room, until something started moving in his hair...
A flurry of startled movement, and he found the string to the overhead bulb in his hand, and with a tug, the single CFL popped on, washing the room in pale yellow light. Both sides of the room were lined with four large shelves, simply made from scrap OSB sheeting. The back wall had a full length mirror under the top shelf (he couldn't see all of himself in the 5'6" mirror of course), and a clothes rod spanning the width of the room. He knew where his gun safe would be going, in the corner of the room, holding his three rifles and shotgun. That would be coming next weekend, when his step-father came up with the truck and his furniture: Bed and dresser. He figured he could source a cheap or free table, couch, tv stand and tv from somewhere in the city. bed and dresser were somewhat harder to find, the dresser being hand built by the father he never knew, and the loft bed having been a project between himself and his stepfather.
A tug of the string, and the light clicked out, he backed out of the closet with plans on his mind, slowly closing the door with a twist of the knob so that the latch wouldn't click; a habit he had picked up while scaring the living hell out of his brother and sister. He stood in the entrance of the hallway and surveyed his domain, he could see where he would put the loft bed, the couch and TV. In the kitchen, against the outer wall, under the window that looked out over the back yard, he could see a small, two person table. With a sigh, he pulled the keys from his pocket, jingling them slightly while walking out the door. Locking the steel sheathed slab of wood behind him, he climbed the covered stairs, and took a couple steps over the cement flagstones to the gunmetal grey box on wheels. It was an old, rickety looking Suzuki LJ80, a tiny SUV, smaller than the Suzuki Samurai that eventually replaced it. Sophisticated as a tractor with a body mounted on it....it just went faster. Slightly.
He put the key in the lock when he heard the scraping noise of a window being lifted behind him, it was the female half of the landlord picture. "Good evening Mrs. Boggs."
"Evening Arguta, just get here I see?" She was a pleasant woman, in her late fifties with a bit of meat on her bones, and a face that might have been charmingly lovely thirty years, and three children ago. Now well aged into the doting, grandmotherly phase of her life. Her once chestnut brown hair, salted with silver and white, framing her face as she leaned out the window slightly, "If you haven't eaten yet, I have some left over pork roast that needs a home." At his moment of hesitation, she added, "It isn't enough to save for Ken and I, and I am not throwing it out."
He twitched his mouth into a smirk that quickly broadened into a smile, outwitted by a grandmother... ran through his mind, before he nodded, "Thank you very much, I just need to get something for breakfast tomorrow before the stores close, or I forget. Alright?" A quick nod in response, and he unlocked the door, before awkwardly climbing into the tiny vehicle, before settling back behind the B, pillar into the modified driver's seat, that gave him the leg, arm and head room needed. A twist of the key, and the engine quickly started into a smooth, quiet idle. He backed out of the driveway, flicking on the headlights, and headed for the small strip mall he had seen on his way to his new home.
It was about five blocks away in this older section of town, driving there took him through a section of abandoned lots. Pulling to a stop sign, his left hand turn signal slowly ticking as he waited for a break in the light traffic, he saw something shift in the lot ahead of him. A break in traffic and he carried forward, turning to the left while he watched to his right, before seeing something that caught his attention sharply. Swerving to the curb, he parked the truck and got out, switching off the engine and dragging the key with him in a smooth motion. The keys went into the pocket of his jeans as he walked calmly towards the commotion he had seen, five young men were chasing a sixth, all about his own age of twenty. The ones in pursuit brandishing a baseball bat, and some small iron pipe, heavily rusted. The glint of a steel blade in the hand of another solidified his resolve.
With deft lightness and strength, Aguta jumped the six foot fence, pivoting himself off the cross bar a the top to land lightly in the overgrown weeds of the growing gloom. The fleeing man had seen the movement, and was charging towards Aguta, screaming for help. The men in pursuit slowed, eyeing this potential threat..."Yo bitch, the fuck you think you doin'? You wann'get tapped like that rat, pus....Jesus man, the hell's wrong with you?"
While his height was potentially imposing, the gaunt features of his face conveyed the assurance that he was deathly ill. Aguta glared down at the men, before slowly, deliberately speaking through a clenched jaw, "Cowards. Attacking an unarmed man in numbers, armed yourselves? How weak and pathetic are yo-" His words were cut off by the man with the rusted pipe lunging at him, rage at being called a coward filling his eyes. A flicker of shadows as Aguta flicked his right arm in the man's direction shoved him off course, and into the fence, without ever seeming to touch him. "How weak and pathetic are you all? Have some goddamn honor fig-" He tried to continue, before once more being cut off, this time by the apparent leader, or the strongest of the five.
"Puta think's he all bad cause he gots a power!" In the gloom, the man's eyes began to shimmer, crackling with green energy, "I got that shit too you Albino chingado!" a pair of snapping green lances of energy shot out, crashing into the torso of the interloper of the gang's affairs. A fraction of a second later, the leader grinned, the energy still crackling around the corners of his eyes as the pale green mist radiated from the chest of Aguta, now laying on the ground, flat on his back. "Aniz, chinga tu mad...the...shit?!"
His eyes snapped wide as ethreal grey/white limbs grew out of the downed man's chest, long, sinuous, and tipped with six inch daggers of claws, black as coal. As the arms formed, they arched and dug into the ground, hoisting up a deep chested, but emaciated torso. The head formed next, the grey/white skin of the neck pulled taunt as the head was rolled back listlessly until the torso was dragged upright by its limbs; the head snapped forwards, the jagged teeth of the maw wide open, emitting a feral roar of rage that echoed off the walls of the abandoned homes, eyes glowing red, like embers in the night, as the blood curling roar turned into a guttural snarl, "And you will know the difference in our strengths when I tear your joints apart, and gouge out your precious little eyes as I slide my fingers inside your skull!"
The rancid strench of urine hung in the air as the gang members fled, scattering from the area in five different directions. Even the man who he had tried to help was no where to be found. "Worked better than I had hoped..." he said with a smirk of amusement on his face as he turned back to the fence, and jumped over it again with ease. He knew his abilities were rare, and had gambled a bit with the cards in his hands; he had bet that the gang members had never seen something that could be from their worst nightmares come to life before them. Add in a solid, and convincing bluff, and everyone goes home without injury. He could live with that. Now, he needed to grab some milk, bread, oats, and eggs.
Appearance: Standing 6'9" (206cm) in height, and weighing 243 lbs (110kg), with skin as red as Carmine, with a bright metallic silver design of swirls and dots winding up his right arm onto his shoulder, matching his mid-length, brilliant silver hair, while wearing a silver mask with elongated red horns, Yuu tends to make a somewhat imposing first impression. Behind the mask however, hides the face of a young man who was savagely attacked and left for dead. From the front half of his nose ending abruptly to elongated nostrils after it was cut free, to the thick scar tissue, traced with silver that spreads out in thick ribbons of where "DEMON" was engraved in his forehead. His eyes however, have managed to stay the same, unique selves; amber, with the right eye having a section of the iris spanning roughly three-eighths of the upper right side being faded to pale blue. It's known as sectoral heterochromia caused by mild type-II Waardenburg Syndrome.
Name: Yuu "James" Miyata, Yuu-Oni, Yuoni, The Red Archer Age: 22 Gender: Male
Personality: Yuu has a strong conviction in the right to personal freedom, with all of the personal responsibility that it entails. He personally does not believe that he has the right to impose his will on others, and that those who do, and act upon their will, he generally does not get along with very well. He views tolerance as an almost paramount virtue.
Tending towards being warm and welcoming on first meeting, Yuu seems to however keep himself reserved as people he has met begin to express themselves more, leading some to consider him perhaps a bit cold or aloof. The problem for Yuu is, is in many cases, he simply does not feel much of anything to what many others feel strongly about. The main reason behind this, is that Yuu tends to think objectively, naturally removing himself from the situation to try and see as many sides and facets to a conflict, or problem, and solve it in the most rational sense without much thought to the emotions of others. The things he is passionate about however, are fairly obvious as he practices with dedication that few of his friends seem able to comprehend.
To understand Yuu, one must look to the beginning; His Parents. His mother, Musaki Susumo, and his father, Miyata Ryota. Ryota came from a family proud to be able to claim that they were the decedents of the Samurai, Miyata Kiyogi, and continued to serve as noble warriors, defending Japan to the modern day. Ryota himself, had joined the JSDF when he was young, becoming a notable soldier within the 1st Airborne Brigade. He met Susumo, falling in love and they began trying to start a family, only to find out that Susumo had extremely low chances of conceiving a child. Yet, with advances in fertility drugs, the pair were able to conceive. Six months into the pregnancy, Susumo was devastated when she went into labour. The child, who would have been their daughter, did not survive three days. Three years later, however, a miracle happened; Susumo was pregnant again, and all signs were showing a healthy boy. He came early by a month, but managed to live. He was diagnosed with Waardensburg syndrome quickly, a genetic disorder that left him with being unable to hear high pitch tones, and his unique eyes. A year later, and Susumo was pregnant again for her third time, joy and elation gave way to despair, sorrow, and agony as Susumo suffered an infection that killed the fetus and nearly took her as well. This was a turning point for the woman who wanted three children; her dreams, her hopes were ripped from her on that operating table. In her own way, she felt ashamed that she could not provide the family the two lovers had dreamed of. Yet they had Yuu, precious little Yuu.
As Yuu grew older, and began taking martial arts classes at the age of four, Susumo and Ryota began talking. Talking that led to heated words. A year later, and the arguments exploded with the news that Ryota's brother had died in a training accident when his helicopter lost power and crashed to the deck of an American aircraft carrier, leaving his wife with no children of their own. Susumo could not bear to see her one and only child grow up to join the JSDF, with the world climate as tenuous as it was, the possibility of her son, her precious son joining the military and dying before his time tormented her. Ryota however, could not fathom being the father who let the family line of honorable warriors end with himin such a fashion. Yet his love for his wife, and seeing the pain she had gone through, finally forced him to relent, five months after the death of his brother. Yuu was withdrawn from the martial arts class, and was soon enrolled in a music club for his afternoon activities which he was not pleased with, but soon came to accept.
On Yuu's seventh birthday, his father came home with surprise news; He'd been promoted to act as Liason with the American military in the development of Japan's own Special Forces division. The result of this news, meant that Ryota would be moving to America to get settled in, and then Susumo and Yuu would follow a few months later. Susumo was torn between happiness and sadness of having to move, while Yuu was resoundingly unhappy with the idea. Susumo managed to get Ryota to agree to push the move date until the summer break, to at the very least, let Yuu have the full school year with his friends.
On arrival in California, Yuu and his mother were greeted with a surprise, Ryota had taken up Archery and bowery in the garage of the house that they were moving into. He explained that he had felt something missing within him during the months away from home, away from his family, and that this hobby was a connection to his ancestors that he found relaxing. At first Yuu seemed indifferent to the idea of his father's archery, but as he acclimated, and began growing connections to the other kids in the neighbourhood who were fascinated by the fact that Yuu's ancestors were real Samurai, Yuu began taking interest as well. His father even made him his first bow. For the first time since he was five, he was connecting with his father and his ancestors again, and Yuu enjoyed the growing bond.
When school started, Yuu lost contact with several of the friends he had made in the neighbourhood; some having to move away with their fathers, or others just being in different schools, Yuu became a little depressed, and started reading most of the time, partly to work on his English, and partly because he wanted to escape. It was on a field trip to an Orchard when Yuu first really met Kim, a tom-boy of the class who "accidentally" hit him over the head with a peach. When he recovered and bit into it, Yuu had a minor, childhood, existential moment of surprise and delight. Yuu loved peaches. It was better than anything he could remember from back home in Japan, better than Kazuragi's mothers sweet rice balls, which he never thought would be topped. Combine his love of peaches and his awkward name in America, and it wasn't long until Yuu earned the nickname that would follow him for the rest of his life, James; like the titular character of the book Kim got Yuu as a birthday present later that year, "James and the Giant Peach."
However, Yuu's home life was slowly getting strained, as his mother started objecting to Yuu's practice with archery, his less than perfect grades, and his mother and father having small arguments again. It wasn't long before Susumo claimed that archery was too dangerous for Yuu to practice, after Ryota made a mistake while de-stringing his bow, and caught the tip running up his cheek, requiring twenty three stitches to close it. Yuu cried at first, and then grew quiet. Repressing his resentment to his mother for taking away something fun. As his grades began to slip further, Susumo got angrier, and his father became more distant.
With his parent's fighting weekly, Yuu relished any chance he got to get out of the house, and began confiding in Kim more and more at school as they became almost inseparable. Life carried on until is father realized that the was no love left between himself and Susumo. Not ready to divorce however, and with a promotion to a senior office in Japan beckoning, Yuu's father returned to Japan, while his wife and child elected to stay in America, soon after gaining their citizenship. Without the tempering influence of his father, Susumo came down hard on her son, punishing him for getting less than 99% on his tests, berating him for his music teacher not praising him enough, any small fault was a an opening for a torrent of belittling contempt. Secretly, he wrote letters to his father, begging Kim to send them for him, while Kim supported him, keeping him from breaking under the stress of a mother who expected more than he was capable of giving.
A week after his sixteenth birthday, a long slender tube arrived from Japan, through Kim. Inside was a beautifully crafted, laminate bow, with his father's Kanji engraved in the lower bow limb, Yuu's Kanji in the top limb, and the crest of Miyata Kiyogi flanking the grip. On the belly of the bow, was engraved a poem by Basho;
Breaking the silence
Of an ancient pond,
A frog jumped into water-
A deep resonance
It took Yuu three days to summon the courage, but he broke the silence, and stood up to his mother. The repercussions of the incident significantly affected his life; he was thrown out of the home. He stayed with Kim for two days before his father took him back to Japan. He surprised his father when he chose to continue with his piano lessons, in addition to resuming his archery practice, learning the craft of bow making from his father, and keeping his grades high in school. When he revealed to his father that he was thinking of going into law, or politics instead of joining the military, his father nodded, and understood. His son was going to be a different form of warrior, but a warrior all the same.
After highschool, Yuu was accepted into the University of Berkeley, and meeting again with Kim. She surprised him again, by introducing Yuu to her girlfriend, Tricia. It would be a lie to say he was entirely happy for her, a part of him hoping for more from their friendship now, but he realized that he never really had much of a chance. He was the brother she needed, as he was the person she came out to first. Through his time at Berkley, Yuu kept himself quite busy between classes, he participated in a Philharmonic Orchestra to continue his piano work, practiced his archery and bowery after joining a small DIY group workshop, and began taking part in a debate group to work on his skills to supplement what he learned while studying law.
The day he found the Vellum letter, he was puzzled. He almost decided not to bother with it, as there was no real reason to go to some random address, except that it was just a block away from the indoor archery range. Just get off the bus and go the other direction to see what this was about, if he didn't like it, just carry on to archery a minute or two later than normal. With his two staves in their leather wrapped, cardboard tube slung over his shoulder, and the mysterious letter in hand, he left his dorm room. Arriving at the location just as Kim arrived at the same time caught him off guard, hugging while trying to figure out what the letters were about, Yuu found himself suddenly blinded by the flash of light emitted by the letter.
Awakening alone, barely covered by his stretched and ripped clothing, the young man faced several shocks fairly quickly; from his skin now being deep red, with a strange silvery tattoo-like design on his right arm, and an instant growth in height by roughly a foot, Yuu had some adjusting to do. He found his bow case, and used the remnants of his clothes to tie around his waist as some form of concealment. By the time he made his way out of the orchard to a road, Yuu was able to walk almost normally. Shortly after however, his welcoming to Fantasia was less than benevolent as three men in armor, riding horses approached him and encircled him. Calling him a demon, and telling him to hand over whatever it was he was carrying. Bewildered and stunned, Yuu complied, handing his bowcase to one of the men. The bandit opened the case and pulled out both bowstaves, looking them over and flexing them while looking thoroughly confused, as they were too well crafted for a commoner to afford, but lacked the draw weight of a bow made for a Lord or Knight, and much too large to be the bow of a Knight's squire. They quickly made the decision to sell the bows, and take the stranger to be sold into slavery.
Yuu objected. During the fight, Yuu grabbed onto the stave his father had made for him, and in trying to wrench it from the hands of the bandit, broke the man's arm. The other two responded with drawn blades, on instinct, Yuu tried to block one of the swords with the stave, only to have the sword smash it in two and leave a graving cut down the left side of his chest. The second man's sword met his face, even as he tried to escape the blade's reach, slashing down through the bridge of his nose and out. The rest became a blur that faded between life and death.
Luckily, his second coming to the world was far more hospitable. Saved by a travelling caravan of traders, makers, and healers, he came to realize that he had been unconscious for the past several days, fighting off infection as his wounds healed. He found himself a home on the road, working as an apprentice bowyer, and caravan guard, where his height and rapidly improving ability with the bow lend him an imposing figure that helped the caravan move with less difficulties that before. With working as a guard while travelling, he has been studying the melee arts as well, and while many years behind those of his own age, his physical power lends him some forgiveness with his lack of skill. One of the most notable things of Yuu, is the mask he has carved from wood; a homage to the Oni demons of his ancestry, that fits well with his current appearance.
Skills: Archery - Yuu is a fairly skilled archer, good at estimating range, accurate, and able to bend a powerful stave that will drive a heavy shaft through most forms of armor. He is however, not a master by any means, and is not the most accurate of those in his age group, as he hasn't grown up depending on archery as many have for their own safety, or for food. Yet, he seems to have a knack for it, and has learned much in his short time in this world. Bowyer - As well, he is a competent bowyer of his own right, though currently considered an Apprentice, there is little more his master can teach him in the art of bow-craft. Melee Combat - His training in melee combat has given him a cursory knowledge of how to handle various close range fighting implements, that he trains at for a minimum of two hours every day to improve his skills. He knows his strength alone is not enough against some of the bandits and criminals who love to prey on caravans. Pianist - An accomplished pianist in his own right, although slightly out of practice after two years on the road, Yuu is still able to play a solid repertoire when the caravan stops near a town with a piano. Although, many seem to have no understanding of the music he plays, he has learned a handful of "local" songs.
Misc: Yuu fashioned a six inch span of the bow his father made for him into a necklace he wears constantly. A leather thong attached to both ends holding it horizontal across his chest.
While his strength and height have been augmented substantially, Yuu has grown to have an allergic reaction to beans and holly.
Outside of his work, he seems cold, remote, and aloof. Not very concerned with the day to day affairs of anyone else he comes in contact with, save one; Eloria. He isn't polite, he isn't charming, he is simply an unplesant person to be around.
When performing a mission, he is tactical, calculating, precise, cold, and the very definition of ruthless. He is ruthless, for the pure pragmatic reasoning that he is more likely to stay alive if it he doesn't take prisoners, and just kills everything. He doesn't care if he kills women, children, elderly, invalid, pets or anything else. He doesn't get angry, he has no reason to. He does, however, enjoy his work, simply because he is good at it.
When performing a job, Allejandro wears a suit of custom crafted body armor that weighs in excess of fifty pounds. It is full body, covering from his feet to his head, front, back and sides. The flexible armor weighs a great deal, but is otherwise quite steamlined, and allows for near perfect range of movement. The suit of the armor is capable of defeating sustained, multiple hits from all calibers below 12.7x99mm. 12.7x99mm BMG it can defeat if the weapon is fired from in excess of 150m, and no shot is within a 2" radius. 12.7x99mm API ammunition such as MK257, and MK300 Mod 0, can be defeated from a range of 300m, if no shot is within a 4" radius. SLAP or Explosive ammunition can be defeated once, on any given part of the armor (Chest, Back, Each arm and each leg).
Helmet, and feet are protected up to NIJ Level IV certification, and capable of withstanding multiple hits at all ranges.
The armor provides him a secure, and private connection to his Watcher, capable of transmitting streaming video to a heads up display. The armor also provides him a wireless network, able to communicate with up to six remote drones at any one time. The heads up display can provide him with thermal/infra-red, light amplification, flash protection, and motion detection capabilities. Aurally, the armor can provide sound amplification (He can hear whispers within a 15m radius, but cannot hear heartbeats, and selective sound cancellation, or full (Can selectively mute sounds from his environment to a degree. At it's strongest, selective attenuation will lower the report of a rifle by about 70 decibels, while keeping most of the background noise unaffected. Or all sounds if being affected by a sonic attack.) The armor is hermetically sealed, and can provide him with up to 45 minutes of breathable air, through the use of a replaceable oxygen cartridge and a rebreather.
The armor is adaptable to multiple configurations by add-on pouches that can be configured to carry ammunition, grenades, just about anything he chooses to carry, depending on the mission. The outward surface of the armor is capable of limited, adaptive camouflage. It has shifting, digital pattern that adapts to light, and colour levels automatically, unless controlled otherwise. It cannot render him invisible, or mimic an image. The armor bears no identifying markings, script, nor traceable manufacturer markings anywhere on it, nor in it. It is a phenomenally high tech piece of gear, and could potentially have been produced by any number of corporations with the technology, or inclination to do so, let alone the numerous individuals with some kind of intelligence ability.
When meeting contacts, Allejandro typically wears simple, black and white suits, with NIJ Level IIIa protection built into them, using a variety of materials. He is also never unarmed.
Estrago is known to use an impressively lethal array of weaponry, all stored in his armored van.
What looks to be just another, ordinary 16' delivery truck, has been heavily modified and reinforced, while retaining a very unmodified appearance. Only when one gets close, do the near inch and a half thick, bullet resistant glass windows give anything away. All of the vehicle's metal has been replaced with three inches of composite armor paneling, with an outer layer that provides heat-masking camouflage, enabling the van to emit a heat-signature of a smaller vehicle, to help it blend in at night from FLIR equipped helicopters. The outer skin also utilizes and advanced system of changing its color on demand, enabling it to appear as a black van one moment, and a white, red, blue, green, or any other color van the next, along with a variety of pre-programmed camouflage insignias, logos, and other designs to appear as a company truck as needed. To cope with the van's increased weight, the suspension has been upgraded, as well as the engine. The tires are designed as run-flat, in case he ever is forced to deal with spike strips.
The van is equipped with an advanced, and custom implementation of an Active Defense System, (Anti-missle, anti-shell) that implements both soft, and hard kill techniques. Detection is multi-spectrum, from optical, radar, and laser; allowing the vehicle to track the vector of the inbound projectile, identify most standard systems, and select a kill-method as fast as possible. For infra-red and laser guided missiles, often a soft-kill method of painting the launcher, or the missile seeker with a laser from the vehicle itself, can force a deflection. When necessary however, the system retracts the panel from one of the four, turreted Counter Munition turrets, which launches an explosively formed projectile into the inbound munition, to damage and deflect it before it can damage the van. Each CM Turret carries two CM panels, for redundancy, or instant, double-strike capability. The turrets can also reload themselves from two, eight panel magazines on either side of them, giveing them a total of 16 EFPs before needing manual loading of the magazines.
The inside of the van is fairly simple: On the driver's side of the van, at the rear-most corner is rack space for a pair of custom, UAVs, each equipped with advanced surveillance equipment. Capable of loiter time approaching 40 hours. Beside the stowed UAVs, is the the computer equipment needed to coordinate much of the armor's networking functions, especially when away from the grid.
The opposite side of the vehicle is dominated by a selection of firearms, and ammunition. Rear-most of the vehicle, just inside the door is rack space for three loaded ATGL-L5 (RPG-7 modernized clones, each loaded with a different grenade, one RHEAT-7MA, one RHEF-7MA, one RTB-7MA), a Star-Streak MANPADS, and a Spike SR ATGM launcher. Above is a rack of ready to use grenades for the ATGL-L's, a mix of specialty warheads; 3x RHEF-7MA (40/73mm Anti-Personel High Explosive), 2x RHEAT-7MA (40/73mm High Explosive Anti-Tank, 300mm pen), 1x TATR-7VMZ (40/106mm Dual Stage High Explosive Anti-Tank, 700mm pen), 1x RTB-7MA (40/106mm Thermobaric).
Overhead and beneath resides stowage for crated ATGL-L munitions, Starstreak missiles in their tubes, and an extra pair of Spike SR ATGMs in their own crate.
Beside the section for the rocket propelled weaponry, is a divided space for his three most used weapons, an M32 MGL, a pair of custom made assault rifles chambered in 7x46mm UIAC, and a pair of CZ 75 SP-01 Tactical pistols. Much of the ammunition for the M32 is made up of CS, and White Phosporous smoke grenades. While the Assault rifles are wholly unique, utilizing simple metal construction techniques to build a light weight (7lb, 3oz) bullpup rifle, with a dual-ejection port that can be selected on the fly. Firing the 7x46mm UIAC cartridge, which pushes a 130 grain bullet to 2650 fps, for a muzzle energy of just over 2000 ft-lbs. It gives the rifle far more power and range than any other assault rifle, but lacks the recoil and blast of 7.62x51mm. The rifle is constructed of extruded aluminum for the lower and upper receivers, using a dual operating rod construction very reminiscient of the Leader Dynamics T2 rifle (itself a closely inspired by the development of the AR180), down to the simple to machine, triangular three-lug bolt head. The primary difference is that the rifle utilizes a long-stroke gas piston design for reliability. He keeps two rifles and pistols at the ready in the van, should one malfunction, he can fight his way back to the van, and re-arm immediately.
Beneath the racks holding the weapons, he keeps loaded and ready to go magazines of ammunition. For the CZ pistols, there are 18 round magazines, loaded with 9mm. Seperated by color code, and thus ammunition, Plain for +P FMJ, blue for +P HP. The rifle ammunition is similar, 40 round, quad-stack, polymer magazines; Black for Armor Piercing, Blue for Hollow Point, Green for mixed (2 AP : 1 HP)
Overhead, down the center of the van, are bins of grenades, ranging from HE-Concussion grenades, HE-Frag grenades, to HC smoke grenades. Behind the bins of grenades in a specifically designed cradel, rests a WWII era Simonov PTRS-41 in 14.5x114mm KPV. A semi-automatic anti-material rifle with nearly twice the kinetic energy of 12.7x99mm rifles more commonly used. He doesn't use it much however, keeping it mostly as a souvenier.
Allejandro also has a 1991 Lotus Carlton, modified rather extensively with bullet resistant armor up to T4 (NIJ Level IIIA), yet leaving the car looking unchanged. In addition to the standard passenger compartment armoring, the front fenders, hood, and grille opening have been armored to T4 specification as well, making it somewhat harder to disable the car. This additional weight has been compensated with stronger control arms, springs, and dampers to match, giving a better ride than stock. The engine has been upgraded to a sequential dual-turbocharger system, modern EFI, more performance orientated camshaft, and a few other tweaks to bring the power up from 377 horsepower, to 432. The wheels have grown to 19” forged units, with a run-flat insert installed, under the performance tires. The car is no where near as protected as his van, as he is not “Estrago” while in the car.
Allejandro's mother, Ofelia was taken by a gang in penance for her father's debts when she was but eight years old. She grew up on heroin and cocaine, as a child prostitute during the 1970s. When she was fifteen, she became pregnant, and hid her condition from the gang, hoping to run away with her baby with the small amount of money she had skimmed from her payments to the gang.
The problem however, was that they were aware of what she was doing, when she ran, at 8 months pregnant, they followed her and caught her before she could cross the border to the US. In a brutal demonstration of force, they slaughtered ever one of the men, women, and children she was with before her, making her watch as they killed each one before her. They told her that her price for betrayal, was not going to be the death of her unborn child, not even her own death, but that he would be raised, from birth, as a soldier. He would never know her touch. He would never know love. He would be raised without a conscience. When they got Ophelia back to their compound, they surgically removed the child from her early without anethetic, just to prove a point: She would not even have the chance to kill herself, or her child, before they got to him.
As further insult, they named the child after Alejandro, a name meaning “Defender of Mankind,” when he would be anything but. Raised in violence and indoctrination to brutal tasks, the child proved himself more capable than his teachers in eight years, able to best grown men via his skill and speed in more than half his sparring bouts. Of course, to give credit, these were untrained street fighters. That is until the gang used their power and pull to get the child private lessons from a mixture of corrupt military officials and martial artists in the city.
During this time, Allejandro was also blooded; he began with witnessing the leaders of the gang killing captured members of rival gangs. When he was seven, the knife was placed in his hand; without mercy nor remorse, the child cut the throat of a prostitute who was caught trying to escape the gang's control. By the time he was eight, he was gunning down rival gangs with cold brutality.
In the next seven years, Allejandro became a name feared throughout the city. He was like a ghost, a shadow who helped to raise the gang to prominence, before they were absorbed by Mara Salvatrucha in 1987. Allejandro became an asset to the violent cartel, being moved between Mexico, the USA, and Columbia as needed for the next three years. In 1990, he was assisting the Gulf Cartel with some “problems” with their drug trafficing connections in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. During a conflict, the BOPE (Essentially more violent and ruthless SWAT) came to shut the small gang war down. Allejandro was shot three times, after killing three BOPE officers, two in hand to hand combat.
The leader of the BOPE spared the young warrior's life, thinking he saw something unique in the boy, as the 15 year old Allejandro recovered in hospital, the leader, Thiago Parra, returned. He came with questions, as there was no record of Allejandro's birth, no record of his life, no record of who he was. He decided to try something risky, he offered Allejandro a choice: Work for him, or his life would be terminated.
Gomez chose life. His introduction to BOPE was being thrown into training for special forces. Thiago had a plan, he was forming something off the books. He was forming something that would not exist, to do things that were not allowed, for the good of Rio de Janerio, and for the country itself.
Allejandro Gomez struggled in the training, it was nightmarishly brutal. He was young for it. He wasn't strong enough. He relished the challenge, and Thiago saw this. It was what he had seen in the eyes of a youth who killed three of his men; the boy had no real affilitation, it was challenging himself that drove him. He pushed the boy hard, and Alle refused to yield. Grown men undergoing the same training cheered Allejandro on with their insults. Something the boy had not known before was comradeship; in the gangs, he was a weapon. A tool to be employed with no feeling, no concerns. Expendable. Now, he was experiencing somthing wholly new. People talked to him, not just giving him orders, or training him. They seemed shocked by his lethal history he knew, but continued to talk, and share their own pasts.
There were even people with unique abilities in the training, a man who could fly, another who could see things and colours no one else could. It was something different, and they were becoming what Thiago refered to as Zero Pelotão, or just, Zero. At sixteen, Allejandro passed some of the most rigourous training a man could endure.
Zero Pelotão was used secretly to engage corrupt government officials, bring down the heads of gangs and cartels, take down dangerous people who used supernatural powers against Brazil, and other, assorted tasks. During the time of Zero's activity, Rio de Janerio's gangs began to lose ground to the BOPE and the regular Police. Government corruption began to see a declining trend as those who abused their power, kept finding themselves mysteriously dead.
On a mission to Columbia, Zero encounted a mercenary group that were working for the Columbian Government to try and eliminate one of the Paramilitary Cartels what was funneling Cocaine into Brazil. They met, by Allejandro taking a rebel down just before the man could kill one of the Mercenary group's snipers. An Irish woman by the name of Eloria Danyon, nicknamed Rooster. The two groups allied for the month, tearing down the Paramilitary rebels, before returning to their home countries.
Zero however, came to an end in 1998, Thiago Parra was working on bringing down the Gulf Cartel, and his plan involved eliminating their based of power in Mexico, to help cripple their infrastructure of moving around marijuana, cocaine, and heroin. Their first target, was Mara Salvatrucha. Near the end, Allejandro was recognized by one of his old handlers, who rounded up members of the gang, and captured their rogue asset. For three months, Allejandro was tortured for information. The end of it, they came to break him. They showed him something he had not known, and something he had forgotten about; The first was a grainy video from a hand held camera in badly faded colours of a woman, pregnant, her hair matted with blooud, dark spots glistening on her sweat-soaked face, as she screamed in agony as they cut a child from her womb. Clips of the same woman, being raped, being tortured, clips of her in a drug induced stupor on the streets. The final video was like a lost memory, less grainy, and slightly healthier colours depicting a young child with shaved hair, and a loose white t-shirt, standing before a woman, before a man off screen said the word, “Muerte.” The child leaned into the woman, shoving the knife through her throat, and then ripped it free. Her face a mask of realization, pain, terror, and abominable hatred as her eyes fixed on the camera, or whoever held the camera.
Allejandro had killed his own mother. Without remorse. Without guilt. Without any of these things he had started to become aware of when working in Zero. His escape from the MS-13 left nothing but charred corpses as the building collapsed.
Never officially existing, presumed dead, and with a psyche shattered, Allejandro was lost.
In 2002, Allejandro, a homeless beggar, was witnessed killing a would be rapist in Panama City. He was approached by a man in a suit who recognized the martial arts beneath the dirt and filth. He offered Allejandro a chance to join Section One, a PMC. A month later, Allejandro was clean, shaven, and flying to Africa. Shortly thereafter, the company was beginning to have second thoughts, Allejandro was wild, killing people indiscriminately, violent among his squad, and twice had to have a sniper save his life from his own blood thirst fueled mistakes.
He was kicked from the company a year later. Three years later, he was contacted by Rooster. She had a proposition for him. This was the start of Estrago.
Allejandro's only recent photo; from his time in Section One.
Power Level (Select one below):
Allejandro Gomez has no known power. He is demonstrably human in all regards.
He is however, highly trained in Jiu-Jitsu and Krav-Maga. He fights brutally to break joints, and disable opponents, however, he is most heavily trained in the use of firearms, and is able to use all modern firearms with notable accuracy and skill. Trained in Advanced CQB, mountain warfare, jungle warfare.
Also in his bag of tricks, is survivalism, knowledge of how to improvise weapons, long term outdoor survival and shelter construction. He is skilled at first aid, and is known to regularly take care of himself in this regard. Vehicle handling skills he has also picked up, out of necessity.
Attributes (Select one at each category):
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Fighting Skill: Mastered
Other than not integrating well with people, and having to rely on Rooster to act as his handler, he has no real weaknesses.
Rooster: The enigmatic, female voice that acts as Handler of Estrago. The two have a long history together, having saved each others lives more than once. Rooster seems to have connections that span the globe, and resources that can only be offered by top level corporation. Allejandro does not know what corporation, nor is he inclined to know.
David: A brain. A brain that never seems to leave his well funded lab, where he continually tries to make things tougher, harder, more explosive, more powerful, etc. Is connected, or employed by Rooster.
What can you bring to the RPG?:
A mercenary that is disturbing on some accounts from his lack of regard for life; any of it. He has no qualms with killing anything, or anyone who gets in his way with his target. He doesn't chat, he doesn't bicker. He pulls the trigger and walks over corpses.
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Certainly.
The bearings of the fan grumbled as it continued to lazily spin overhead in the run down bar located in Gyeiktaw, Burma. The fan did little to nothing to stir the humid air as the rain flooded down from the sky. There were two men in the bar, local farmers taking their time before they would head back to their wives and families to continue working until the darkness fell. A heavy set figure, with skin a redder tone than the dark brown of the natives sat behind the bar, listening to the radio that looked as though it had been in the place since the 1950s, wood turning grey where the varnish had worn thin, the fabric covering the speakers torn and rotting, one dial knob was missing, replaced with a piece of wood tied on tightly with a string, forming a T shape. The display was cracked, and the indicator barely visible through the dirt-frosted glass. From it came the static crackled voice of the news reporter, droning on about the weather that Allejandro watched, lashing against the coast with a ferocity just shy of the last tropical storm. Dressed in stained shorts with the hems fraying, and a light and thin, button up, dark blue T-shirt, stained with his sweat around the collar and arm pits, and an equally stained, blue Mandalay cap, shoved on his head where the dark brown hair curled in a spill of unkempt style.
The heavy TV box sat in the corner, dark as the lights flickered suddenly, causing Allejandro to look up, watching them for a moment, while training his ears to the muted thrum of the generator on the back deck. It coughed, and the lights flickered. Closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly he hated when this happened. Looking up, he gave a whistle to get the attention of the customers, and nodded to the two wiry, middle aged farmers, speaking in slightly broken Burmese, “Generator is out of gas.” He received an apathetic shrug in response as the genny coughed and sputtered, the lights flickering for a moment, before finally dying as the sound of the generator faded to nothing. The sound of the rain seemed to grow louder with its absence, like filling in the vacuum of sound, and making how miserable it was outside, that much more prevalent.
Half an hour passed, and the main electricity was still off, the generator was still out of fuel, and his two customers had left, leaving the foreign beer stand operator to his own devices. His own devices had caused him to climb upon the bar, and lay down, face to the ceiling, as he drifted off to a point between sleep and awareness, letting his body and mind rest, without losing his ability to wake instantly should he hear someone approaching. Minutes crawled by as the rains fell in sheets, thrumming off the corrugated tin roof.
A tire on gravel, an engine. Stirring from his rest, Allejandro rolled off the bar to his feet, stretching his thick arms wide as he yawned. Bringing his arms in, he swept off the cap with his left, using his right hand to run his fingers through his unwashed hair, itching at the scalp lightly before he spat a gummy wad of saliva to the floor, and returned to his stool. Listening to the car approach, he grew curious; it didn't have the rickety puttering stumble of a 1970s pile of rust that the wealthy farmers drove, rather it was quiet, a much more modern vehicle. Tourists? In the middle of this storm, coming to a blacked out bar with no power? It wasn't unheard of, but it was more likely to be some sort of gang. He'd thrown down two gangs since he was hired to work this shit hole, which was part of why he was hired in the first place, as customer satisfaction was definitively not his strong suit. From under the counter he slid the FN FAL with its loaded magazine already in place. He cracked the bolt open to make sure it was loaded, then letting it slam closed, he lowered the rifle below the level of the counter and waited as the car rolled to a stop in the growing gloom of the approaching night. Three doors opened and closed, solidly. Definitely a newer car, possibly a rental, running through his mind as he analyzed the situation. He could hear them, two heavy set men, and...someone lighter. Standing from the stool, he rolled his neck, getting ready for the inevitable. Another damned gang who wanted protection money from the tiny place in the middle of no where, that police didn't give a single shit about.
Two white men in suits breached the doorway holding large canopy umbrellas for a woman in a suit. Allejandro blinked, and lowered the rifle from his left hand, putting the muzzle to the floor as he tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing. He was not expecting goddamn fucking gringos of all things. The two men turned, shaking off the canopies of their umbrellas outside, as the woman looked at him squarely, she was of medium height, burning red hair shoulder length, and pale skin marred by freckles. Neither slim, nor heavy, she had a built of a woman who was used to fighting, strangely enough. The suit she wore was utilitarian, but well tailored, costly by craftsmanship, rather than style. And she looked damn familiar. Green eyes scrutinized him as the two men behind her bracketed the door like statues of muscle. He could see the slight projection of a muzzle through the suit one wore, though he expected that. He returned his eyes to the woman, as waited.
A minute of awkward silence passed before he spat on the floor, and asked, snarling in a mixture of Burmese and Spanish, “The fucking hell you want bitch?!”
The corners of her mouth twitched up, before she cracked and began laughing. She took a few moments to settle, and he could hear the muffled snort of one of the men behind her, “Alle, you don't remember me?” Her voice rang with the thick and unmistakable accent of the Irish in the English tongue, mixed with the tang of someone insulted.
Suddenly he remembered, “Rooster?” He blinked, Finally it clicked, her face with his memories, her name, her skills, everything came back in a flood of nostalgia. “You owe me a beer bitch. I won that last fuckin' game of poker, and you right fuckin' know it. And while we're on this shit of who owes who what, who the fuck'r your goons, and what the shit are you doing wearin' a suit?”
Mirthfully she snickered at his brash behavior and rudeness, “Fine, bartender,” her voice shot through with cynicism, “Get two. The muscle is Scuzz from the Company, you remember him, and Kilty, he's new.” She straightened her posture and tugged at the lapels of her suit jacket, “And I am the CEO of a company I'll have you know, not Ravenwood.” She made the distinction quite forcefully, as she knew that Alle and Ravenwood were not on the best of terms in the world. “Respectable business, I can even say honestly.”
He glanced at her with suspicion as he listened while pulling a pair of bottles from the small fridge under the counter, using the bottle opener nailed into the melamine surface, each cap falling into the pile of caps in the basket below, disturbing a small swarm of fruit flies. He handed one of the bottles of Tiger to Rooster, and kept one for himself. He figured the best beer the shithole had would have to suffice. “You...respectable? Since when?”
A smirk, taking a sip of the beer, which was rapidly forming a puddle of condensation around its base before she smiled, “Things change my greasy, dirty ass spic, unlike you. Situations evolved, certain things changed hands. Some people might have woken up to find themselves having trouble breathing. You understand.”
Without a word, he rolled his eyes and took a deep pull on the decent beer, swallowing it and feeling the chill liquid slide all the way down.
“Which, is why I am here.”
He coughed slightly, “You know I don't do respectable you fucking lepper.” Lepper was a nickname he had bestowed upon her, short for Leprechaun. At the door, the man indicated as Kilty looked confused as Scuzz smirked slightly, before whispering in the other mans ear, something about never trying to call the boss that. Ever.
“Oh, I know you don't. That is why I am here Alle. Where Ravenwood saw complications to their buisness, I see an opportunity to get you back doing what you are best at. No one in your way, just you, and your particular skillset.” She pulled on the beer herself, then looked to the bottle as she swallowed it slowly, licking her red lips, “No, it isn't Guinness by any means is it?” A roll of her eyes and she regarded her old friend once more, “Alle, I will be straight forward, as it's the only way to get through your thick head: I want you to work for me. Secretly. I want to use you as a solo mercenary. I want you, to get out of your depressed, shitty little rut you have dug yourself here, and get back to bringing a little bit of Estrago to those you are hired to eliminate.”
A brow was raised on the mexican's face as he processed what she just said. Before he could respond however, One of the men at the door broke their silence, “Wait....we just flew fourteen hours, with a crying fucking infant in my ear, drove six plus hours in a fucking monsoon, to offer this drunk sack of shit a job, doing something I could fucking do? I read his file! He was kicked out of Ravenwood for fuck's sake! I mean, what the fuck has he been doing for three yea-” Kilty was silenced as a knife streaked towards his face. He managed to move almost out of its way, through the edge dug into the cartilage of his right ear, and through it. Then he saw it, the blur of movement from the corner of his eye as Allejandro vaulted the counter like a brown skinned panther, lithe, agile, and faster than he had any seeming right to be. Reaching for the gun under his right arm, he found himself too slow as the second knife slashed through the back of his palm, and embedded the tip into his fifth rib, as a dirty left hand rose up in a palm strike to his jaw that was punctuated by the shattering of a tooth. The strike nearly knocked him out, and made him stagger which made him involuntarily try to use his right arm to grab hold of something, which just cased the flesh of his hand to part, spearing his mind with another violent flash of pain. His jaw dropped open, only to find fingers finding their way inside, and then heaving down. The noise was sickening, a wet, muffled crackle of bone splintering backed by the pop of a joint dislocating, and the tearing of tendons and ligaments being wrenched away from their anchor points. A gurgling scream emitted from Kilty as he sagged to his knees, his eyes wide in agony, and terror at what just happened.
Allejandro let the man sink to the ground, spitting a glob of mucus into the man's now gaping mouth, his face contorted into a mask of seething disgust, "Never disrespect Rooster again, or I will rip your jaw clean from your skull and used it to carve your pene free, before I shove it down your madre's throat.”
Scuzz stood watching, his face maintained neutral. He had tried to warn the Scotsman, but the kid was young, and obviously thought too highly of himself, while disregarding the reports of exactly what Allejandro had only been seen to do. The brutality and savageness within the heart of Allejandro was beyond anything Scuzz had witnessed in his ten years of service with the Army rangers, and the further seven he had spent in Ravenwood. He had learned to generally keep his mouth shut around the man, and knew that the only person who the mexican seemed to have any sort of relationship, was with Rooster. He personally put it down to the fact that the cold blooded bitch had saved Alle's ass more times than he had saved hers. He looked up when her heard Rooster's voice, “Alle, jesus. Just...clean up your mess, it's too far to a hospital.” Scuzz closed his eyes as he heard the strangled scream from the man who had been whimpering on the floor, followed by the wet crackling of bone being broken under the heavy booted foot. Two crunching strikes, and the vocalizations were silenced. Two more, and the wet gurgling of breath washed away under the drone of the rain on the roof.
”Arriving in Lost Haven, Maine shipping yards, one hour.” The voice was tinny, dragging Allejandro out of his slumber and the dream....the memory from so long ago. He took half of a deep breath before it turned into a yawn. Clearing his mouth of the gummy saliva, he thought about it as he scratched the back of his head, Eight fuckin years now. Christ. He was thirty-eight now, the close shaven stubble of hair on his head tinged with the grey of age. His next mission awaited him.
Last edited by Goldmarble; 1 Week Ago at 03:37 AM.
Kušma is a strong, and weathered man of distinguished age. His reddish brown hair is faded from the richness it once was, as his thick, but trimmed, beard is mostly run through with grey and white, save for the thick brush on his upper lip, which retains some colour. The lines that are worn into his skin from many years of hard work, and harder travel, give him a somewhat grim expression, somewhat amplified by the loss of his wife and young children three years ago. Dark blue eyes, and the small lump of a wart on the left side of his nose give him a somewhat memorable appearance.
Standing 5'10", and weighing 167 lbs, he bears the broad shoulders, and thick arms and wrists of a master carpenter, and a warrior, well. He has many scars from his work on his hands and legs, along with a particularly ragged scar on both sides of his right shoulder, where he foolishly caught an arrow. Due to that incident, he has learned how to fight with his left hand bearing his axe, and his right to brace his shield.
Born in the northern lands of Karelia, Kušma was raised in one of the typical tribes of the area. While his father was a hunter, and the first son took after him, Kušma sought a different path, and learned the art of carpentry and ship building from Heikki Mannipoika. He learned quickly, and well how to shape timber with axe and adze, how to read the planks for their weak points, to tell the strength from the grain. He was instructed in the methods of building homes to chairs, to ships, using rabbets, mortise and tenon joints, nails and all the other skills that Heikki could impress upon his apprentice.
Trained in the arts of war as any other man of his age, Kušma soon going on trading vessels with the Varangians, before he was thought fit to assist in their raids to the far east, on the Volga Trade Route. After his second voyage to the east, he returned to find his tribe at war with a near-by Sami tribe. Even joining the battle, the Varangians only helped to stifle combat into a terrible draw. Soon, the leaders of each tribe declared peace, and in part of an arrangement to promote their agreement Kušma and and thre other men would marry women from the Sami tribe, while three women of the Karelian tribe would marry men of the Sami. Wed to Uksáhkká Askotytär, a young woman whose husband was killed in the battle, Kušma at first felt indifferent about her, and she to him, but over the next nineteen years, they found a deep love within one another.
Having fathered three sons, and two daughters, and adopting an apprentice, Kušma set out on what was supposed to be his last journey to the East, with his eldest son Dure, who had just turned nineteen, a man of his own, and his apprentice, Eaddji Hegopoika. After a year of sailing down the Volga trade route, and bartering with the numerous settlements, the ships began heading home, laden with the wares, fine linens and cloth, arabic coins and other treasures that would sell well at home. However, once they arrived back in familiar lands, they were confronted with the terrible news that the tribe Kušma belonged to, had been all but wiped out by an outbreak of dysentery.
They returned to the site of their old home, and paid their respects to their lost family and friends before settling in with a nearby tribe. A year passed, and news of his skills had reached a young Danish King, who was seeking to establish a new settlement on the Isle of Zealand, he sent word to the master carpenter that he could marry a woman of his choosing, and have the title of Karl, as befitted a man of his wealth, and skills. At the age of thirty eight, he would make one final voyage to the east, on a merchantile voyage of his own, to gather goods to cement his, and his son's wealth in their new land. Loading their ships the the finest steel, linens, cloth, a couple of swords forged by the Easterners. Yet perhaps the greatest treasures, was of spices; dried, crushed, and powdered peppers, saffron, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, coriander and nutmeg, even pink salt. They would return through Karelia, and continue on to the Isle of Zealand, to settle with families, and begin new lives. With him, he brings his four dogs; each a heavy set, long haired spitz type.
A man borne of hard work, and long voyages, Kušma is both exacting and tolerant. He is an artisan at heart in his love of wood, and strove to instill this love and knowledge within his son, and his apprentice. His pride in his work leads him to mark his work as his own, for a man is worth nothing, if the work of his hands is not his best. He suffers from the loss of his wife in his own, stoic way, wishing to be with her again in Tuonela, but feels that he has not lived out his life yet. As such, he keeps belongings ready for the trek after he dies, but continues to do what needs doing while he still breathes. For now, he desires little more than to pass his remaining years constructing buildings, building ships, carving wood, and if he must fight, he wants to be defending his home, rather than having the possibility of dying far away.
Kušma is a master shipwright, and is known for making light, and fast boats, that have the strength to survive the rapids that must be faced on the Volga river. From his learnings as a shipwright, and by pure necessity, he is a capable carpenter, and can build a good, strong, squared timber home in a few months, as well as all the furnishings he may need. He frequently sailed with his own ships, for when they did get damaged, and became a fierce warrior, in the chilled ferocity of the Karelians. He is quite intelligent, and has learned read, write, and speak Arabic, and has begun learning to read-write, and speak the language of the Norse, for his new home. The breeding of dogs is something he does to keep himself occupied, training and teaching dogs how to hunt, guard, and deal with things like bear.
However, his eye sight is starting to fade, as is his strength and endurance, especially in the hard task of a battle. With his joints starting to ache, especially his right shoulder, he knows it won't be long before he is forced to hang up his shield and axe.
Mostly fine cloth and linens from the east for his daily wear, always has his puukko knife with him, and a pendant of the Tursaansydän. The fabric is bordered with geometric designs around the hems, but otherwise, it is quite plain in comparison. He tends to wear slightly earthy colours of greens and dull reds. Most of his cold weather clothes are comprised thicker, coarser, local cloth, and a reindeer fur cloak.
His fighting gear is composed of a maille shirt from the east, a two bearded war axes made of iron with a steel edge forged welded to the blade. Each axe is engraved with stylistic designs of a bear. A good, stout, six foot spear, and six iron reinforced shields of common make, with only the Tursaansydän engraved on the boss, of which he has his apprentice in charge of all seven (three for himself and his son, and the house shield, with the family crest).
His tools are carried in a tightly constructed chest, sealed against water with beeswax. In it, wrapped in reindeer fur, are his broad axe, felling axe, two adzes of different width, wedges, log dogs, two hand saws, chisels, and slicks, various sizes of augers, and his large breast auger. Smaller tools like his planes, rasps, and files, sharpening implements are wrapped in lighter furs, as they are less likely to be damaged by shifting and impact. None of the tools are hafted at the moment however, a method to save weight, as he can easily carve new hafts for all of his tools from local woods when he arrives.
Relationships and Acquaintances:
- Kušma's eldest, and only surviving son. Now twentytwo, he is broad shouldered, thick of wrist and with corded muscle lining his arms, standing 5'11, and weighing 182 lbs. He wears reddish-brown hair long, trying it back when at work, be it with wood, or war. His beard and moustache he keeps trimmed a little shorter than his fathers. The resemblance between Dure and his father however, is almost uncanny, almost image of his father, twenty years younger. The only real differences are that Dure's nose is quite a bit more slender than his fathers, and his eyes are a deep brown. Traits of his mother.
He is a skilled shipwright on his own, and has learned near as much as his father can teach him, he was planning on leaving the tribe of his home, when they returned when he was seventeen, but due to circumstances, has stayed with his father. When the invitation from the Danish King came, he decided that he would see his father settled in this Danish land, before striking out on his own adventures. His skill as a warrior is growing as well, highly trained and in practice with his father, has finally bested him three times. Dure has also learned of the Arabic language to a better extend than his father, and is picking up more of the Norse that the Danes speak from the guide.
As befitting his skill, and status, he wears similar garb as his father, and owns a mail shirt as well. His weaponry and tools are similar, but newer and with less wear.
- Eaddji is a young man of 17 years of age, accepted as an apprentice under Kušma when he was but 11. Taken on the voyage away from his home when he was 13, he returned home to find his family had perished with many others. Taken as a son under his mentor's wing, he has struggled to come to grips with the reality that disease cannot be fought against.
Now 17, he has come back to the lands of the west a young man, and all but finished in his apprenticeship. He is a skilled wood worker, with a steadier hand than either Kušma or Dure, and loves to carve for the artistic sake of carving. He isn't however, as skilled in battle, or as powerful, thanks to being a slighter man of 5'8' and 148 lbs. He makes up for his lack of battle prowess with his mind, being quick of wit, and exceedingly adaptable, Eaddji learned quickly from the traders at the markets and bazaars they visiting in the far and distant lands. He is a haggler, and a quick learner, able to learn languages as if he were born to them. During their time in the Arab lands, he found a fondness for their clothing and style, and has incorporated some of it into his traditional wares.
Outside of war, he is a bit of a charming individual, carrying a curved dagger on his left waist, and a puukko at his right. He occasionally adopts a loose headdress when he feels the mood for it, but still follows faith with the Karelian deities. In travel, he is in charge of taking care of his mentor and his adoptive brother's arms and tools, and when at war, is armed with a bearded axe and spear, but his chief responsibilities it to make sure his mentor and brother have a shield at their side should theirs break in the melee.