_____________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________ " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? "
" Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? "
_____________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? "
" S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? "
RUINS OF LUBBOCK, TEXAS, UNITED STATES
_____________________________________________________ " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T "
" Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T "
★ Age?
★ Birthdate?
★ Height?
★ Weight?
★ Ethnicity?
★ Gender??
| ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F "
" T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F "
“To preoccupy oneself with interpersonal trivia in times as wholly dark and grim as these is, I must say, ill-advised, given there are other, more important avenues to commit one’s time… However, in the interests of being forthcoming, I will oblige, if you will deign to keep your expectations humble.”
Detlev was a man of stoic bearing, his rough exterior long-hardened by the myriad horrors he’d witnessed in darker, mercifully-distant days. A living testament of the dire threats coiled tight around the heart of the Frontier, with their secret intricacies scribbled upon his mind and flesh in a plethora of gouges and scars, he’d long since committed his life to hunting darkness wherever it may propagate. Whether in the shadow of beasts and monsters, or within the hearts of men broken and lost, he ensures they either fall before him, or he dies in the attempt.
Yet there’s more to him than that - the shadows he casts stretch longer than most, and those attuned with the distortionary magic of the Frontier would sense a ghostly aura about him. It is said in certain mythological tales that those who have witnessed death in abundance throughout their lives are marked by it, a sign of misfortune to those who walk at their side, yet through exposure, comes familiarity, and that, in turn, begets comfort. As such, Detlev doesn’t much fear death - and as such, puts no stock in fighting to deter it, as others often do.
______________________________________________________________________________________________ " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? "
" D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? "
“Scars aren’t lessons, as some would hasten to tell you - they’re empty vessels, reminders of lost things you can’t ever get back, important things. Tell me, friend… What have you lost? What do you wish you could hold so very tight in your grasp, one final time?”
A veritable shade of a man, his strides long and his stature tall, with broad shoulders indicative of an impressive physique at some stage in his life, a stage that has evidently long since been lost to time. As such, he appears gaunt and frail, his wiry musculature maintained only through the frequent exertions his work demands, and the same extends to the way in which he maintains his hair and beard.
A misting of silver ever decorates the man’s chin, each bristly little fibre visible even at medium range - the man was clearly once a diligent daily shaver, but now neglects such a luxury. A messy mop of similarly-coloured hair sits atop his head like the plumage of a ceremonial helmet, packed neatly together and held in place by a leather binding, the consequential tail poking out just beneath the brim of his hat. And what a hat it was, marked with slashes and bullet holes galore, just like the man who wore it - his golden eyes shimmering just beneath.
______________________________________________________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? "
" S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? "
“The more a man commits himself to the hunt, the more the line between man and hunter blurs - until, one day, he is destined to awaken and find there is no longer a divide: he is his hunt, then, and will embody its aspect until his very last day.”
Born in a small town in the Comancherie, Detlev lived a simple life as a farmer's son. He was taught the ways of the shovel, the rake, and of course, the hoe, and educated to the best of his father’s ability. The town’s sheriff handled his tutelage when it came to the other important aspects of Frontier life - learning to shoot, learning to hunt, using a knife in the applications of cleaning a kill… And, of course, making one.
As with all things in a place such as this, if a simple life’s trajectory wasn’t jostled by the clumsy hands of fate, it wouldn’t be the Wild West, would it? At the height of The War, and as a consequence of the reliance of magick on both sides, the abandoned battlefields of concluded conflicts became beacons to the shadows that dwelled in The Storm. Such skirmishes happened often in the Comancherie, and the small town of Lubbock would soon pay dearly for simply existing in such a place. Lost, and without his family to tether him to a normal life, he instead accepted an offer from the Sheriff to avenge those he’d lost, to use his hatred and grief to stop others from experiencing the same incredible loss he had.
And so, he was handed off to The Vorstag Brigade, and trained to brave the lands surrounding The Storm to fulfil their mysterious agenda. He saw a lot of death in those years, and though he became an exceptional fighter, he felt a hollowness in the pit of his soul that only grew wider and deeper with each passing season. Lost and broken, he one day took up his rifle and left to rejoin the world, to desperately remind himself of the reasons why he still fought, before it was too late - but all that time spent hollowing himself out to be a better hunter, created space for something else to take root…
______________________________________________________________________________________________ " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? "
" L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? "
“If I were a man of sarcastic temperament, I’d speak of the exceptional conversation. To put it simply, I owe an important debt to your dear Sheriff, a personal debt I’m loath to share - and I intend to linger until I am able to see it repaid, no matter what that may entail. A man must always play his hand, and play it fair: even if he doesn’t agree with every card he holds.”
As with most drifting folk, Detlev was merely passing through - but after finding some measure of common ground with Sheriff Ramos, and the recollection that they’d hunted a monstrosity together a fair few seasons past, he was convinced to remain for a time… But deep within himself, in a place long neglected, he found himself drawing plenty of similarities between Amstad and Old Lubbock - there was an unspoken and nuanced nostalgia to the place, and it brought rare comfort to his long-troubled soul.
Paradoxically, comfort is fairly uncomfortable for Detlev. So accustomed was he to life spent sleeping on cold ground beneath a threadbare tarp and a fading fire, that the concept of resting within a walled abode, upon a modest bed was something he’d found quiet joy in rediscovering. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t move on when his time comes, no… It only meant that, for now, he could allow himself this rare respite. And, perhaps if the clumsy hand of fate were to once more sweep across the board, he’d get to share some of his experiences with curious folk, and in turn, learn some new things himself.
These days, his rests have grown ever frequent and overlong, and progress moving from place to place is slower than it used to be… A fact he isn’t quite yet ready to fully embrace, an dso, some time away from the road will likely do him some good. He hopes, at least - a fell, whipping wind blows through Amstad, and he can feel the guttural, primal pressure of The Storm’s influence even here… |
