Jagred
22 | 1m80| Tainted
22 | 1m80| Tainted
Physical Description:
A young man in his early twenties, Jagred carries himself like a hunted beast; steps light and skittish, amber eyes chase after movements too often and hand quick to reach for his weapons. He is tall but gangly, a result of his malnourish youth. While his thin frame wasn’t built for strength, he is certainly fast, all sinew and coiled muscles, paired with an impressive stamina born from years hunting in the waste. Among his tainted brethren, he is one of the lucky ones, the cursed blood in his veins doesn’t affect his outward appearance. The amber of his eyes might be a bit too bright to be natural, his copper-tipped hair might stand out in a crowd, but all in all, he didn’t look different from a normal, pure-blooded human.
Biography/background:
Born to a tribe of nomads living among the war-torn landscape, Jagred’s childhood was a story of struggles. His people kept herds of docile beasts, travelling across the waste on their backs and often stopping only to hunt and capture more animals for their herds. However, they weren’t entirely self-sufficient, as there was no way for them to obtain firearms or medicines, other than trading with either the Republic or the tainted rebels. His tribe, of course, chose the former. While they had no love for the Republic’s iron fist, his people still wished to stay in their good graces, not wanting to incur the wrath of the zealous Inquisitors. So most of the tainted was killed at birth, an act perceived as merciful by the tribesmen, as their only other choice was turning to the slave pens within Republic walls.
Jagred was fortunate than most. His tainted blood was hidden, even from himself. He grew up as a normal boy in a family of seven, along with three older brothers and a younger sister. His father was an accomplished hunter, and from a tender age, Jagred had been taught the art. He took to it like fish to water and excelled, even surpassed his brothers in term of skills. As Jagred grew into his teen, his nomad tribe was struggling to survive. A rivalling tribe had been attacking and killing off their cattle, while the scouts and hunters came back with news of skirmishes nearby between the Republic and the infected. This unfavorable turn of events forced his tribe to flee with haste, with the enemy still hounding their steps. Things were just getting worse as a group of Inquisitors approached and demanded that they relinquished their remaining cattle. With the looming threat of starvation, Jagred and other hunters from his tribe had to take turn scourging the broken landscape from dusk till dawn, hoping to catch even the smallest of critters to feed their people.
It was the first time he met another Tainted.
The man was crouching on the ground when they approached; matted hair clung to the back of his dirty shirt. It was just Jagred and his brother then, the others were spending their hard-earned rest back at camp, sharing what meager ration they had left. They were cautious. Very much so. And yet, the man didn’t have any problem picking up their footsteps, even when muffed with leather boots and sand. He turned, and Jagred found himself staring at amber eyes that mirrored his own. The stranger snarled, actually snarled like a cornered animal, chapped lips curled up to reveal rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Startled, Jagred stepped back, and did something he would later regret for years to come: he shot the outsider. The bullet barely gazed the tainted; and like a wounded beast, he charged at Jagred. Razor-sharp talons left gaping wounds on his brother’s chest before the crazed man finally turned, leaping for Jagred. He remembered his grip on the old rifle, then nothing at all.
When Jagred came to his senses, it was all over. His brother was lying in a pool of congealing blood, while nearby, his killer was on the ground, the old rifle protruding from his chest, its metal barrel was twisted by an impossible strength. Just as Jagred struggled to his feet, the Inquisitors came, taking in the maimed corpses and his bloody hands, before deciding to drag him back in chains. They drew his blood with a strange device, and the red gem attached to it glowed a bright crimson. Jagred didn’t know what it was then, but from the sharpness of his captors’ gaze, he could generally guess.
He wasn’t just a human.
They were going to execute him. Chained and brought to his knees, the Inquisitor surrounded him in a loose circle, some offered him disdain glare while others had toothy grins on, discussing the details of his imminent death with just a little bit too much enthusiasm. But it was the sight of his tribesmen behind the armored frame that broke him. They all just stood there, resignation and a hint of fear laced their features, but none made a move, none dared to stand up for him. After all he had done for them, they would just leave him to die like this, a rabid mutt shot down, insignificant and unremembered.
Then again, the Inquisitors would have slaughtered them all for just trying, a part of him reasoned, if they haven’t been planning for that already.
Still, it didn’t soften the painful twist of betrayal in his guts as he stared down the cold barrel of the gun. He didn’t want to die. Not just yet. Then, there was a voice somewhere, old and rumbling, telling him that he didn’t have to. It felt eerily familiar, as if he had just heard it moments before, the memory murky and dream-like as it resurfaced. It was the same voice he heard during his unfortunate encounter with the crazed tainted. The voice promised him life, silkily, and justice. Sweet retribution, for the wrongs committed against him. He didn’t have a choice when the darkness enveloped his senses.
When he regained consciousness, it had already been over. Bodies littered the ground, puddles of blackened blood sloshed beneath his bare feet as he struggled out of his chains, the metal once again bent and crushed by an inhuman strength. Among the dead, there were the Inquisitors, but he also recognized faces as well, maimed and broken as they were. Even his own brothers. The voice spoke again, promised even more power and freedom, if only he just let it have more control. But he wouldn’t give it that. Never again. His thoughts flickered back to the crazed tainted, the same man who had murdered his brother and was in turn tore apart by whatever ancient monster he woke. He didn’t want to become something like that, a simple, mindless beast, driven purely by bloodlust and slaughter, only to be put down by someone better.
So he took off, after scavenging what he could from the fallen. He kept to himself on the road, only interacting with people and stopping briefly at towns when it was absolutely necessary. The voice nagged at him every step of the way, reminding of old grudges and retribution and bloody slaughter, which was getting harder and harder to ignore each passing day.
But he digressed. The Inquisitors was still a threat in the wasteland, and he did his best to avoid them, for the sake of his sanity as well as theirs. Unfortunately, that path pushed him closer and closer to the tainted’s territory each day.
Born to a tribe of nomads living among the war-torn landscape, Jagred’s childhood was a story of struggles. His people kept herds of docile beasts, travelling across the waste on their backs and often stopping only to hunt and capture more animals for their herds. However, they weren’t entirely self-sufficient, as there was no way for them to obtain firearms or medicines, other than trading with either the Republic or the tainted rebels. His tribe, of course, chose the former. While they had no love for the Republic’s iron fist, his people still wished to stay in their good graces, not wanting to incur the wrath of the zealous Inquisitors. So most of the tainted was killed at birth, an act perceived as merciful by the tribesmen, as their only other choice was turning to the slave pens within Republic walls.
Jagred was fortunate than most. His tainted blood was hidden, even from himself. He grew up as a normal boy in a family of seven, along with three older brothers and a younger sister. His father was an accomplished hunter, and from a tender age, Jagred had been taught the art. He took to it like fish to water and excelled, even surpassed his brothers in term of skills. As Jagred grew into his teen, his nomad tribe was struggling to survive. A rivalling tribe had been attacking and killing off their cattle, while the scouts and hunters came back with news of skirmishes nearby between the Republic and the infected. This unfavorable turn of events forced his tribe to flee with haste, with the enemy still hounding their steps. Things were just getting worse as a group of Inquisitors approached and demanded that they relinquished their remaining cattle. With the looming threat of starvation, Jagred and other hunters from his tribe had to take turn scourging the broken landscape from dusk till dawn, hoping to catch even the smallest of critters to feed their people.
It was the first time he met another Tainted.
The man was crouching on the ground when they approached; matted hair clung to the back of his dirty shirt. It was just Jagred and his brother then, the others were spending their hard-earned rest back at camp, sharing what meager ration they had left. They were cautious. Very much so. And yet, the man didn’t have any problem picking up their footsteps, even when muffed with leather boots and sand. He turned, and Jagred found himself staring at amber eyes that mirrored his own. The stranger snarled, actually snarled like a cornered animal, chapped lips curled up to reveal rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Startled, Jagred stepped back, and did something he would later regret for years to come: he shot the outsider. The bullet barely gazed the tainted; and like a wounded beast, he charged at Jagred. Razor-sharp talons left gaping wounds on his brother’s chest before the crazed man finally turned, leaping for Jagred. He remembered his grip on the old rifle, then nothing at all.
When Jagred came to his senses, it was all over. His brother was lying in a pool of congealing blood, while nearby, his killer was on the ground, the old rifle protruding from his chest, its metal barrel was twisted by an impossible strength. Just as Jagred struggled to his feet, the Inquisitors came, taking in the maimed corpses and his bloody hands, before deciding to drag him back in chains. They drew his blood with a strange device, and the red gem attached to it glowed a bright crimson. Jagred didn’t know what it was then, but from the sharpness of his captors’ gaze, he could generally guess.
He wasn’t just a human.
They were going to execute him. Chained and brought to his knees, the Inquisitor surrounded him in a loose circle, some offered him disdain glare while others had toothy grins on, discussing the details of his imminent death with just a little bit too much enthusiasm. But it was the sight of his tribesmen behind the armored frame that broke him. They all just stood there, resignation and a hint of fear laced their features, but none made a move, none dared to stand up for him. After all he had done for them, they would just leave him to die like this, a rabid mutt shot down, insignificant and unremembered.
Then again, the Inquisitors would have slaughtered them all for just trying, a part of him reasoned, if they haven’t been planning for that already.
Still, it didn’t soften the painful twist of betrayal in his guts as he stared down the cold barrel of the gun. He didn’t want to die. Not just yet. Then, there was a voice somewhere, old and rumbling, telling him that he didn’t have to. It felt eerily familiar, as if he had just heard it moments before, the memory murky and dream-like as it resurfaced. It was the same voice he heard during his unfortunate encounter with the crazed tainted. The voice promised him life, silkily, and justice. Sweet retribution, for the wrongs committed against him. He didn’t have a choice when the darkness enveloped his senses.
When he regained consciousness, it had already been over. Bodies littered the ground, puddles of blackened blood sloshed beneath his bare feet as he struggled out of his chains, the metal once again bent and crushed by an inhuman strength. Among the dead, there were the Inquisitors, but he also recognized faces as well, maimed and broken as they were. Even his own brothers. The voice spoke again, promised even more power and freedom, if only he just let it have more control. But he wouldn’t give it that. Never again. His thoughts flickered back to the crazed tainted, the same man who had murdered his brother and was in turn tore apart by whatever ancient monster he woke. He didn’t want to become something like that, a simple, mindless beast, driven purely by bloodlust and slaughter, only to be put down by someone better.
So he took off, after scavenging what he could from the fallen. He kept to himself on the road, only interacting with people and stopping briefly at towns when it was absolutely necessary. The voice nagged at him every step of the way, reminding of old grudges and retribution and bloody slaughter, which was getting harder and harder to ignore each passing day.
But he digressed. The Inquisitors was still a threat in the wasteland, and he did his best to avoid them, for the sake of his sanity as well as theirs. Unfortunately, that path pushed him closer and closer to the tainted’s territory each day.
Personality:
Before his little ‘incident’, Jagred is a mild-mannered young man, all soft smiles and diplomatic responses when talking to others. He doesn’t like conflicts, which might make him appears passive and weak in the eyes of others. Beneath his smile and non-committal shrug though, Jagred was all fierce loyalty and steel determination. However, much has changed since the bloody event with the Inquisitors. His unwavering loyalty had been broken, and he now scoffed at his previous naïve trust in people. He had become more practical in his action, making decisions that benefited him, rather than other people. While his mild disposition remained, it had somewhat turned into cold calculation and indifference.
Skillset:
An adept hunter, Jagred has had practices with several kinds of ranged weapons, such as the long bows, crossbows, pistols and rifles. However, throughout his years as a hunter in the harsh wasteland, he preferred the rifle, mostly for its power and precision. He is quite a good shot, able to take out a moving target from meters away, all while remain hidden and downwind. As a hunter, he also has some experience in tracking and setting traps, as well as keeping himself alive in the wilds.
Equipment:
- A military issued rifle, blood crystal-powered. While it can fire regular bullets as well, when needed, the rifle shoots blood red beam that deals as much damage as a regular bullet does. However, after the fifth shot, it usually takes up to 3 minutes to recharge.
- A simple machete, its blade a tad rusty and adorned with several knicks.
- A small pocket knife.
- A blood-stained backpack filled with several necessities: water skins, canned food, flints, whetstones and flares.
The Uncoiled
