Full Name: Aleksander Dmitry Vadimovich
Titles/Nicknames: The Wall, The Bear of the North
Age: 26
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6’5”
Weight: 260 lbs

Appearance: Aleksander is an enormous man, all muscle and bushy blonde hair. He’s as pale as one would expect from someone who lived their life in the cold, and his long hair and beard are kept tidy and organized, usually braided so as not to get in his eyes. On his back he has a massive tattoo of a brown bear, a holdover from his army days. When he’s not in the arena he usually wears light trousers and no shirt at all, citing the southern heat as a reason for this.

Personality: ‘Relentlessly grim’ would not be an inaccurate depiction of Aleksander. The man is a pessimist and a cynic to a fault, always grumbling about the weather, the chances of dying, and basically any other annoyance that comes to his mind. He’s not without humor, possessing a very sharp deadpan wit, and he’s surprisingly quick to make friends for someone who seems so stoic and harsh. He says what’s on his mind, always, whether that’s a compliment or an insult, and he is not given to overt displays of passion or violence in the arena. Instead, his most important trait as a gladiator is his iron will, his ability to shrug off pain, and his single-minded determination to accomplish his short term goals. One could argue that his grimness and sarcasm is the result of a deeply traumatized and emotionally vulnerable man trying to seal away the world, but who really knows?



Strength: 7
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 5
Cunning: 2
Magic: 1
Willpower: 8
Endurance: 10
Charisma: 2

Weapons of Choice: Aleksander takes two tools into battle; his enormous round shield, big enough to cover much of his considerable mass, and a one-handed steel hammer that makes up in speed and crushing power what it lacks in decoration.

Armor/Combat Apparel: Aleksander still wears his old Tyrenian plate armor – a thick chunk of metal that covers his lower body and protects his legs, but leaves his arms and upper torso completely exposed. During his army days, he would normally throw some chainmail or a cloak over his upper body, to protect both from injury and the cold – he forgoes this in the arena, however. The crowd hungers for blood, and Alexsander knows he has more to spare than most.

Fighting Style: Alexsander is all defense, all the time. He keeps his shield up and his most vulnerable allies behind him, his attacks mainly limited to quick thrusts and short swings with his hammer designed to keep foes distracted and off balance. He’ll rarely ever go on the offensive unless he sees his foes in a complete rout, preferring to stay strong, stay rooted, and stay protecting those who need protecting.

Magical Affinity: None.

• Spell 1 None.

Place of Birth: Tyren
Social Status: Deserter
Alignment: Earth

History: Every now and then in the frigid land of Tyren, some tribal chieftain or upjumped Warlord manages to get enough men and momentum behind him to make a real go of unifying the warring province under one banner. Lord Kalfsson was one such man.
Aleksander was born in a remote corner of Tyren, the only child of a single mother whose husband had been killed in the tribal infighting. War was a constant danger in the village, and the young man learned how to hold a weapon almost before he could speak. It was a childhood of cold, deprivation, and hardship, and it left Aleksander with an iron will and an ability to persist past almost anything.
He was seventeen when his life changed. It was the day Lord Kalfsson came to his village, seeking men for his cause. The lord was flanked by fifty knights in heavy armor, at the head of a massive army, and he told the young men of the village that he needed their assistance to bring peace to this shattered realm. They would not be warriors, or brigands, or tribal raiders; they would be soldiers. The distinction was important to them, then.
And so Aleksander left his mother and his village, journeying off with his friends and joining the army that would bring peace to the realm. It was good, for a few years – there was victory, and companionship, and more food and plunder than he had ever seen in his lifetime. Lord Kalfsson was a genius, his leadership unquestionable, his men the finest in the land; victory and peace were assured.
Defeats started. Winters settled in, and half of Aleksander’s friends died not in battle, but of hunger or frostbite. The army moved erratically, as if unsure of its course. Tribes they had already conquered rose up in rebellion. Lord Kalfsson put a stop to all audience with his men, retreating full-time to his tent. They started raiding villages and minor tribes for supplies, acting like the same savages they had set out to put an end to. Years passed like this, and Aleksander barely noticed them as he went.
One day, while he was overseeing the burning of a peasant farm that had refused to give up its supplies to the army, Aleksander finally realized that there was no such thing as a war for peace. He was the last survivor of his friends – all the other young men who had left his village with him were dead. He rode south almost immediately, selling his horse and what few belongings he had stored in return for passage to Risha. His weapons and armor, however he kept, knowing that his ability to inflict violence was his only real skill, and that there would always be someone willing the pay for that.

Other: Theme Song soon, probably