Rogart's huge stature was a sight during his days as a student in the Academy. With shoulders broader than most men were wide, and arms built like tanks, Rogart easily dominated the strength department. He has a head of light brown hair, always maintained at a short buzzcut of near military standard. He also has a full beard, into which is braided a single line of beads. Each oblong, beige bead has the name of a parent engraved on it, and at the end is a smaller, round, sky blue bead with Eric's name on it. His garb often consists of a tank top underneath a plain hoodie or jacket, blue jeans and combat boots. When out in combat, this attire changes to a long sleeved shirt underneath padded combat armour, which then lies underneath a woolen jacket with a fur-lined high collar. Cargo pants, black fingerless gloves and combat boots complete the look.

Rogart is simple. Rogart is nice. Rogart does nice things and doesn't expect anything in return. Rogart understands that people will most often view him as stupid because of his massive stature. Rogart therefore continues to act the part for the greatest lies are the ones told every day without fail.

Rogart knows the world is a shitty place, and he also knows that without brave men and women like the Guardians and the military keeping the Modrem at bay. Rogart understands this, and cares for his friends the same way he treats family, with compassion, respect, unrivalled loyalty, honesty and understanding.

Rogart, in gatherings, is often the silent type, preferring to grace social events or gatherings with friends with his huge, memorable size, moreso than words, of which he has little. But his words are often the products of a life spent thinking, and as a result what he says is usually good. Usually.

Rogart understands that there is a higher power...somewhere in the sky. Somewhere, where the dead watch from above, where there is no war, only peace and serenity. He longs to see this place, but for now is contained to the physical. Through communing with his spirits, Rogart seeks to understand what lies beyond the physical veil, contrasting much with his stature.

Rogart was born in Cetra, like most of the Oakridge alumni. But his upbringing was more unique than most.

Born in a particularly seedy part of Cetra's capital, Rogart learned from a young age that where he lived, size was everything. The bigger and stronger you were, the more people respected you. It didn't help that his parents were both poor, and dear ol' dad perished young. His parents were descendants of mountaineering race of people from Anatolia, who had been driven out by aggressive Mordrem expansion. Their people, gathered into a big group, decided to brave the Dark Zone's rabid expanse and make for the safer zone of Cetra's uninfected areas. Most never made it. Rogart's parents, among others, were only part of the small group of survivors that made it out alive.

The refugees soon integrated themselves within Cetran society; those infected by Stigma were swiftly quarantined and treated, while the healthy were housed within the poorer areas while they looked for work. Such was life for Rogart and many others of his kind. He grew up amidst the general filth, and didn't learn how to read until he was six. Small in stature when he was young, Rogart suffered amongst the bullies in the public school he went to, and grew a quiet exterior as a result.

When puberty and adulthood hit him, he tripled in size, gaining more height and bulk than he cared to admit. His mother, by then an elderly lady, decided to do the best thing she could think of: enrolling him into Oakridge. The academy would clothe, feed and take care of him, so her own life would be easier. Rogart understood her mother's decision to send him away, and went with a heavy heart, for he knew that once he left, she would wither away until nothing remained.

It wasn't a year into his time at Oakridge that he received a letter. His mother, the last of his family, had passed away of a broken heart.

He wept for many nights after that, and slowly grew distraught with each passing day. Many of his peers noticed the change in the budding young man, and it wasn't long before he was pulled aside and given counselling.

It was in this dark, sullen period of his life, that he met the youngster called Eric Wormwood.

Unlike Rogart, Eric still had family. But he too knew the pain of loss: his home village at the outskirts of the capital had suffered a catastrophic attack by Mordrem, and he'd lost a close childhood friend. This had happened when he was very young, and he'd stayed within Cetra's capital ever since. Mourning, for him, had long overstayed its welcome, and he'd dedicated every ounce of his being to excel for his lost friend.

Through him, Rogart began to understand and cope with his loss the same way his newfound friend did: he sucked it up and carried on, not disappointing the spirits of his parents and doing everything for their honour.

Soon, Rogart became one of the top physical candidates within the Academy; what he lacked in speed and agility, he made up for in raw, brute strength, owed partially to his bulk, and the other part to the training he underwent every day. Eric tested his reflexes and honed them to a fine point, and where he lacked speed, he made up for in bulk. By the time of his graduation, he was easily the biggest student of his entire cohort. He and Eric were inseparable, except when they joined into the WARG and were placed into separate teams.

Now, Rogart is a budding young soldier, looking for his first taste of combat, albeit a little apprehensively, and is keen to make new friends and forge lasting relationships.

Rogart uses a big ol' warhammer, powered by magitek to have two separate and distinct modes. The first is, of course, a warhammer, big, bulky and heavy, able to be held in two hands for strong smash attacks but slow to use. The second is activated when Rogart twists the lower handgrip of the hammer. It extends and the grip releases from the outer housing, pulling forth a shorter, lighter mace, as the hammer head and upper grip flatten and transform into a light, firm shield.