[img]http://i.ytimg.com/vi/-Jv-9fSu-G0/maxresdefault.jpg[/img]

[b]DESCRIPTION[/b]
Name:  Soren Hoxellion

Moniker:  Hox

Race:  Human
	
Age:  37

Archetype:  Marksman

[b]SKILLS[/b]
	Marksmanship – Soren is the very definition of a sniper.  Patience, steadiness, and just enough paranoia to remind him that someone’s probably about to stick a knife between his shoulder blades while he’s aiming.

	Silence – He can go from loud and obnoxious to as quiet as a church mouse if need be.  He makes no noise, it’s the high-caliber sniper rifle on his back that creates all the ruckus.

	Lockpicking – Some call it redundant in today’s age.  Soren calls it a very specific skill for very specific tasks.  He’s found that the belfries of the Circuit’s churches are often guarded by nothing but faith and an old tumbler lock, and picked up the skill for that reason.

[b]ATTRIBUTES[/b]
	Intelligent – In a mathematical sense, Soren is a genius, since the lack of a spotter leaves him to do his aiming and calculations for himself.  He failed English in high school, however.
	
	Agile – He’s no contortionist, but his thin frame and inherit quickness make him a hard target.

[b]EQUIPMENT[/b]
	-PGS1 Sniper Rifle, illegally modified in several ways.  Collapsible.
	-9mm Handgun.
	-Butterfly knife, kept in near-pristine condition.

[b]BACKGROUND[/b]
	Born to a middle class family in Polis, Soren grew up wondering what lied below the metropolis he called home.  He had heard of an anarchy underneath his feet that threatened his rigid, law-abiding lifestyle.  As a native of Polis, he’d be a prime target if the lack of government underneath him surged upward.  He became scared of the big “What if?”
	The moment he turned eighteen, he signed up to become a member of the police that watched the city like hawks, day in and day out, driven by his fear of the Circuit.  His application was accepted with little consideration, the only thing standing out was the fact that he scored in the 99th Percentile on his most recent mathematic exam.  He was handed a rifle, a hand gun, and a knife, then was given no spotter, and told to be a “Conflict resolution expert that worked from over a mile away.”  He excelled at his task, never missing a shot when a life depended on it.  The problem was, he hated taking orders from his commanding officers.
	Eventually, after receiving an order to execute someone accused of treason and becoming ridden with guilt after learning the woman was a poor mother of three, Sorin delved head-first into what he feared most, only taking his rifle, pistol, knife, and the clothes on his back with him.  He’d lost faith in the walls the once kept him safe, and now intended to break them down himself.  He’s sold himself out in more ways than he’d like to mention, assassinated more people than he could keep track of, and has been stabbed three times.
	He had been nursing the most recent wound when his most frequent contractor, a native to the Circuit going by the moniker “Volk,” contacted him with a new target.  So he got up, grabbed his weaponry and cigarettes, and headed out of the old, furnished shipping container he called home.  Then he reviewed standard procedure for sniping, something that’s stuck with him since day one of the police academy.  Take a position, wait for the target, line your shot up, and run like hell after the bang.
	It’s a simple process, really.