Alcander 'Al' Mires
Character Summary
Name: Alcander Mires
Aliases: Ty, Moribus (Greek and Latin references to Pathfinder/Adventurer)
Age: 26
Nationality: American/British
Ethnicity: Grecian
Current Residence: None, at the moment. Most recently Sicily.
Gender: Male
Education: Archaeology(Master's Degree)/ Classics (Bachelor's Degree)
Job: Archaeologist, lays low as a Mail Clerk
Role: Action Archaeologist
Appearance
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 170 lbs.
Build: Lean yet toned
Eyes: Earthy Brown
Hair: Black
Skin Tone: Olive
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Old English tattoo of 'Soldier' on his left arm, Greek Tattoo for 'Pathfinder' on his right.
Personal Style: Alcander cuts a wiry and rough, but not unpleasant figure. His black mane of wavy hair, along with his earthy brown eyes give him an approachable look, adding to his charismatic voice and ardent gaze. He has a fine nose that accentuates his rakish face. He never wants to look unpresentable, but looks are also never his primary concern, preferring comfort and ease over fancy appearances.
He wears the popular Swedish M39 wool trousers for ease of use, along with a worn but styled English button down and a thick raffish jacket with military grade boots. A brown grecian belt with a bronze Apollo belt buckle fits snug around his waist. When out on an expedition he wears a high-crowned, wide-brimmed sable fedora.
Psychology
Confident * Cool * Brave * Charismatic
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Known as a bohemian among his colleagues back in London, that wouldn't be too far from the truth with his lust for adventure. However behind that, Alcander is a very genuine and earnest individual. He believes in going after what you feel you should, and working for what you want. He values skill very highly, and honesty is his golden policy. He drives himself hard in his pursuits, and has a great deal of pride in both his heritage, and the skills he has learned over the years. Alcander has an interest in different cultures and languages, thinking the diversity and history of different places is what makes mankind unique. He feels a certain sense of belonging when he is learning or even rereading something interesting that brings meaning to his mind. He tends to be understanding towards people, despite being quite hard on himself. His quick wit and fiery resolve often gives him a magnetic charm.
Habits:
- Chews Tobacco
- Watches the sun rise
Hobbies:
- Swimming
- Fencing
- Boxing
- Reading
- Horseback Riding
- Cooking
Fears:
- Growing old and weary enough to give up his pursuits.
- To be stuck in one place forever.
- To lose credibility.
Likes:
- Hot Days
- Trying new food
- Whiskey
- Old Books
- Adventure
Dislikes: 3 minimal
- Smoking
- Gossip
- Shallow opinions/thinkers
- People who settle for mediocrity
- Closed minded people
- Braggarts
- Unneeded small talk (other than friendly greetings)
History
A Memory:
Sogn og Fjordane, Norway. 1926.
If the sun's light did not reflect off the ice, it would probably be too dark for Alcander to properly see. His torch had fallen in the ravine, and Bjordin had not saw fit to bring one himself, instead opting for his over sized flask instead. It seemed his job of carrying the supplies wasn't the highest thing on his priorities.
"Mori, can you hurry it up? The sun's setting." Bjordin complained, sitting near the cavern's mouth and hugging himself. Alcander didn't bother to reply, so intent on the awe-inspiring sight unfolding before him. All that could be heard was the 'clink chink' of his pickaxe carefully peeling away the ice, inch by inch, breath by breath. The ice had become so shallow, he could see the individual runes etched upon the weapon's haft.
"This is..." he breathed, sweat beading down his head despite the frigid cold of the mountain, Store Skagastølstind. "These are Young Futhark runes." Alcander could barely contained his grin of success at the discovery of the axe. If he was right, and this weapon was the fabled Tyrblad, it would open up a world of opportunity to the greater understanding of Old Norse runes, and appreciation of the ancient myths holding kernels of truth.
The next strike from his pickaxe caused a fissure in the ice; a great crack that expanded until Al had to literally hold the ice shards so the axe did not fall out onto the stone. Bjordin had seen what was occurring, the more homely and boorish man getting up from his seat after a long hibernation consisting of complaints and the occasional passing of gas.
"What is it Mori?" he asked. "Y-You have it?"
Alcander gingerly let the ice shards go, easing his hand into the hole they left, the coldest pocket he had ever felt, and grabbed a hold the weapon as gingerly as he could. Ever so slowly, he pulled it out of the ice, the wood surprisingly sturdy and powerful for how old the weapon must have been. Over a thousand years, at least. Probably far older.
"Do you have it?" Bjordin asked again, anxiety creeping into his voice as Alcander hesitated, though after a moment, the Archaeologist spoke up. "I do. It's..." He shook his head, reading the runic inscription on the haft of the axe. He could barely decipher what was written. Young Futhark had similarities to Old Futhark, but there was so much he didn't know. One word stuck out, however. Tyr, the God of War. "I never thought we'd actually get it. But it's Tyr's axe."
"It was." Bjordin said. Alcander could hear the telltale click of a Mauser C96 behind him. "Now it's mine."
So overwhelmed was Alcander, he hadn't the time to truly appreciate the words until they caught up with him moments later, and he turned to see Bjordin, balding and leering, holding a gun aimed Alcander's way. The denial in Al's eyes quickly turned to a cool understanding as he stood up to his full height, the axe held in his hands protectively.
"Sorry, Mori." Bjordin said. "It's just business." The man's pistol hand was shaking slightly, though if Alcander had to guess, it was the indulgence of drink rather than a lack of willingness. Outside, the sun was dipping even lower, and Alcander knew there was no more time to wait around here. They needed to climb the rock face down now, or be stuck in the cave and freeze overnight. He doubted Bjordin intended for him to stay anywhere.
"Who are you working for?" Alcander asked.
"Do I have to be working for someone, Mori?"
"That's not my name."
At Bjordin's confusion, Al continued. "C'mon big guy. I have only another minute to live anyway." He reasoned. Bjordin took this opportunity to lazily pick his teeth with his freehand as he listened, though he never took his eyes off Alcander. "You really can't tell me if someone's pulling the strings here? After all we've been through?"
"You're right, Mori. Or whoever the fuck you are." Bjordin said. "I got hired by a Mustafa Kemal Atatürk a few months back when you first got here." Alcander clenched his teeth at the name, almost cursing under his breath at the lengths some men held grudges. He hadn't stood by while the man slaughtered Armenians in Turkey. He guessed that was something to stay mad at. "-Paid me upfront, told me I could keep whatever you found with interest after I finished the job. I could have killed you anytime. But I wanted you to find the axe first. Save me the trouble."
"Well, here it is." Alcander said, holding the axe out and taking a step. "Ah! Hold it." Bjordin began, waving the gun up and down. "Place it on the ground slowly, and I'll make sure you die quick." Alcander held his hands up disarmingly, and nodded, lowering his arms now slowly.
"Ya know, Bjordin-" Alcander began, his one step having already gotten his foot close enough to loop his fallen pack's strap, easing the weight under the top of his shoe. "I always said you were a stand up guy." Bjordin's sudden grin disappeared when he saw the pack launched at his face, and he let off a wild shot that flew past Alcander to ricochet off the ice three times. The archaeologist was already moving, not daring to put the axe down but knowing he had little time to let Bjordin get his footing back, his feet nearly slipping on the ice.
The younger man shoulder rushed the older Norwegian, sending him crying out and sliding out of the cavern. His gun dropped down the ravine, and all he held onto now was the axe in Alcander's hand. "Shit," Al said, holding the axe with his left while attempting and thankfully succeeding in finding purchase on the rocks with his other hand. His fingers bled and lighting pain was sent through his arm, but he wouldn't let go of the rock or the axe.
Bjordin gritted his teeth, fear and anger in his eyes at this precarious turn of events. But his great bulk was causing he and Alcander to drift slowly towards the edge, and to Al's horror, the axe's ancient haft began to crack. It was an odd thing, that the one who looked the most distressed and grieved at the situation was Alcander. But a moment later, letting go of his greatest find in years, he opened his hand to save his life. Bjordin screamed terribly, the axe in his left hand, flailing with his arms as he fell hundreds of feet to his death. Alcander watched as the axe and the worthless weight holding it plummeted, and he shook his head at the loss.
"Dammit." He cursed, pulling himself back into safety. It was going to be a long trip down, and he needed to get started.
If the sun's light did not reflect off the ice, it would probably be too dark for Alcander to properly see. His torch had fallen in the ravine, and Bjordin had not saw fit to bring one himself, instead opting for his over sized flask instead. It seemed his job of carrying the supplies wasn't the highest thing on his priorities.
"Mori, can you hurry it up? The sun's setting." Bjordin complained, sitting near the cavern's mouth and hugging himself. Alcander didn't bother to reply, so intent on the awe-inspiring sight unfolding before him. All that could be heard was the 'clink chink' of his pickaxe carefully peeling away the ice, inch by inch, breath by breath. The ice had become so shallow, he could see the individual runes etched upon the weapon's haft.
"This is..." he breathed, sweat beading down his head despite the frigid cold of the mountain, Store Skagastølstind. "These are Young Futhark runes." Alcander could barely contained his grin of success at the discovery of the axe. If he was right, and this weapon was the fabled Tyrblad, it would open up a world of opportunity to the greater understanding of Old Norse runes, and appreciation of the ancient myths holding kernels of truth.
The next strike from his pickaxe caused a fissure in the ice; a great crack that expanded until Al had to literally hold the ice shards so the axe did not fall out onto the stone. Bjordin had seen what was occurring, the more homely and boorish man getting up from his seat after a long hibernation consisting of complaints and the occasional passing of gas.
"What is it Mori?" he asked. "Y-You have it?"
Alcander gingerly let the ice shards go, easing his hand into the hole they left, the coldest pocket he had ever felt, and grabbed a hold the weapon as gingerly as he could. Ever so slowly, he pulled it out of the ice, the wood surprisingly sturdy and powerful for how old the weapon must have been. Over a thousand years, at least. Probably far older.
"Do you have it?" Bjordin asked again, anxiety creeping into his voice as Alcander hesitated, though after a moment, the Archaeologist spoke up. "I do. It's..." He shook his head, reading the runic inscription on the haft of the axe. He could barely decipher what was written. Young Futhark had similarities to Old Futhark, but there was so much he didn't know. One word stuck out, however. Tyr, the God of War. "I never thought we'd actually get it. But it's Tyr's axe."
"It was." Bjordin said. Alcander could hear the telltale click of a Mauser C96 behind him. "Now it's mine."
So overwhelmed was Alcander, he hadn't the time to truly appreciate the words until they caught up with him moments later, and he turned to see Bjordin, balding and leering, holding a gun aimed Alcander's way. The denial in Al's eyes quickly turned to a cool understanding as he stood up to his full height, the axe held in his hands protectively.
"Sorry, Mori." Bjordin said. "It's just business." The man's pistol hand was shaking slightly, though if Alcander had to guess, it was the indulgence of drink rather than a lack of willingness. Outside, the sun was dipping even lower, and Alcander knew there was no more time to wait around here. They needed to climb the rock face down now, or be stuck in the cave and freeze overnight. He doubted Bjordin intended for him to stay anywhere.
"Who are you working for?" Alcander asked.
"Do I have to be working for someone, Mori?"
"That's not my name."
At Bjordin's confusion, Al continued. "C'mon big guy. I have only another minute to live anyway." He reasoned. Bjordin took this opportunity to lazily pick his teeth with his freehand as he listened, though he never took his eyes off Alcander. "You really can't tell me if someone's pulling the strings here? After all we've been through?"
"You're right, Mori. Or whoever the fuck you are." Bjordin said. "I got hired by a Mustafa Kemal Atatürk a few months back when you first got here." Alcander clenched his teeth at the name, almost cursing under his breath at the lengths some men held grudges. He hadn't stood by while the man slaughtered Armenians in Turkey. He guessed that was something to stay mad at. "-Paid me upfront, told me I could keep whatever you found with interest after I finished the job. I could have killed you anytime. But I wanted you to find the axe first. Save me the trouble."
"Well, here it is." Alcander said, holding the axe out and taking a step. "Ah! Hold it." Bjordin began, waving the gun up and down. "Place it on the ground slowly, and I'll make sure you die quick." Alcander held his hands up disarmingly, and nodded, lowering his arms now slowly.
"Ya know, Bjordin-" Alcander began, his one step having already gotten his foot close enough to loop his fallen pack's strap, easing the weight under the top of his shoe. "I always said you were a stand up guy." Bjordin's sudden grin disappeared when he saw the pack launched at his face, and he let off a wild shot that flew past Alcander to ricochet off the ice three times. The archaeologist was already moving, not daring to put the axe down but knowing he had little time to let Bjordin get his footing back, his feet nearly slipping on the ice.
The younger man shoulder rushed the older Norwegian, sending him crying out and sliding out of the cavern. His gun dropped down the ravine, and all he held onto now was the axe in Alcander's hand. "Shit," Al said, holding the axe with his left while attempting and thankfully succeeding in finding purchase on the rocks with his other hand. His fingers bled and lighting pain was sent through his arm, but he wouldn't let go of the rock or the axe.
Bjordin gritted his teeth, fear and anger in his eyes at this precarious turn of events. But his great bulk was causing he and Alcander to drift slowly towards the edge, and to Al's horror, the axe's ancient haft began to crack. It was an odd thing, that the one who looked the most distressed and grieved at the situation was Alcander. But a moment later, letting go of his greatest find in years, he opened his hand to save his life. Bjordin screamed terribly, the axe in his left hand, flailing with his arms as he fell hundreds of feet to his death. Alcander watched as the axe and the worthless weight holding it plummeted, and he shook his head at the loss.
"Dammit." He cursed, pulling himself back into safety. It was going to be a long trip down, and he needed to get started.
History: Alcander was born Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to Nestor and Candice Mires. Both parents were of Greek origin, but dual citizenship with the U.S., having married 4 years before his birth. His mother was a stay at home wife and his father served in the Spanish American War, though he was an entrepreneur of valuables by trade. Alcander was born immediately after the war, and they stayed in America until he was age 7, when they moved to Brittany, France until he was 12 years old. His mother contracted a sickness, and died. His father got a new job opportunity in London, and Alcander spent the remaining years of his life until university there, though he often traveled with his father due to business, particularly in their ethnic homeland of Greece, though they visited places as far north as Novgorod and Gogland, as far south as Kenya, and as far east as Turkey. The Great War halted their travels, and his father was called home to fight. Alcander was only a scant few years too young to fight, but he would never forget waiting for his father to return to him over 3 years of brutal warfare, horrors even Alcander was witness to from their home in London.
He enjoyed reading old stories of myths and legends, as well as historical accounts of ancient conflicts. His wide range of experiences and exposure to artifacts and stories led him to excel in the University of London, graduating with a master's degree within four years. He often enjoyed boxing and fencing in his downtime, when not at study. At age 21, he found himself on his first expedition in Turkey, during the AFranco-Turkish War. He fought for the French, disgusted at the Aremnian genocide and fighting with distinction for the French government, being discharged once the war was done. Since then he has traveled to the Sahara, Macedonia, Norway, and into Germany, though he did make sure to get out once the war began in earnest. He's since then decided to lay low, working as a mail clerk in Sicily. He was recruited by Thomas Cornack to aid in an expedition two months ago.
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