Post by Shin RyuKen on Jan 19, 2014 19:50:18 GMT -5
Name: Unknown, likely forgotten; is specifically addressed as “The Man From Nowhere”
Age: 32
Race: Human
Class: Fusileer
Appearance: "He left his home of Balanco at the age of 28, taking the graze of the pastoral sun and the weary frown of fate with him. His skin is wrapped fairly taut around his lanky frame from his unprotected exposure to the desert sun, leaving behind an organic, leathery tan over his skin. The wrinkles on his face started at an early age and at the onset of his late twenties began to dig deep into his squarely canvassed cheekbones. He stopped taking care of the shadows wreathed by his facial hair of a long time ago, leaving a brazen stubble in the wake of his jawline. Too much remote sunshine resulted in dull semicircles for open eyes that were recessed back into the bronzed flesh below his eyes. His eyes, albeit sealed partway on a regular basis, were a distant memento of his youth, the same beautiful blue pupils probing the soul as they did in the early mornings of childhood. Years of front-end husbandry and yardwork swelled his apish hands that were barely webbed between each finger. His head is regularly concealed by a straw hat brimmed eight inches at a concave angle.
Having spent much more time in his life working rather than adventuring, it came to the surprise of few travelers that his raiment is far from glamorous. A breastplate, interweaved with cotton and silk hewn from the fields and stiffened with resin, covers his torso. The breastplate was smithed to fit tightly around his midsection, although the chest region is more bowed out to effectively deflect arrows and gunfire. In order to keep his upper arm muscles from sunburnt stiffness on more demanding days, he wears sleeves of black hempcloth. A crude buckler, sucked the life from the earth's core with the dry, jagged thorns of dead roses ingrained onto the woodwork. Its brittle vines were loosely wrapped around his left forearm and restrained by a pair of under-arm buckles which shielded his wrists and knuckles with a studded leather brace. The tattered remains of a black poncho lay draped loosely over his shoulders, parting at the torso, leaving behind nothing but disorderly scraps at the edges. From the waist below are a pair of slim-fit slacks of white chino fabric, tightened by a rather adorned belt of tools and munitions more accurately described below. His footwear is merely a pair of ankle-length calfskin boots, antiquated from years of travel in the sand. The crepe rubber soles of his boots are stained constantly with tiered flecks of mud and dust motes."
Physique: Lanky
Personality: “Behold his sluggish temerity, for when he paced forward, a slow, teutonic gait mirrored his very spirit. He was taught in the ways of craftsmanship and blistered palms from the decades dedicated to the pasture he nurtured and the seeds he planted. He knew little else in the onset of his youth other than that material desires were a distant mythos from an era of ancient palaces erected from gold and porcelain. In some vacant corner of his headspace, he reserved the uncertainty of the beaten path to what he foresaw below him as the footsteps of the dead. He saw the horizon as a way to remind people of what wasn’t there, to illuminate the epitaphs of men who treaded the same roads he did – and if not, he would be writing history with his own two feet. His goal in adventure besides preserving the will of his people was to preserve the will of the land by charting it himself, and before his being was extinguished, he would leave behind his footsteps in as much untouched territory as possible.
The man did not conduct any business in dialogue. In fact, it seemed almost impossible to understand his thought process from a first glance. He was a mute and all anyone could interpret was the heavily perpetuated frown on his face. The power of the smile to invoke honor and spirit in men was absent in this reticent soul, he was only motivated to practice wariness and security. Nature was unkind at times by gifting him with rainworn crops so he could only imagine the cruelties of humankind. He was used to a strange, primitive form of governance where villagers were their own responsibility, but the decrepit ocean of sand around them forebode death and famine with the carrion outcomes of the miasma reducing the community and sanctity of his home day after day. As such, he stopped living peacefully, but instead lived to make decisions and demand the most out of other people.
He was infatuated with the idea of restorative justice, rehabilitating his enemies instead of outright killing them. He would not arrest criminals at home, he would visit them in prison and teach them how to read, write, and some other valuable practical skills such as accounting and cooking. In the same fashion, he did not end the lives of his opponents unless it was too dire a circumstance. He allied with thieves in the desert and taught them survival skills, giving them a few coins and a map with all the nearest oases and ruins. The idea of a man who resorted to violence was one who was suffering internally. He thought almost all forms of thievery and terrorism could be traced back to a form of status-seeking in which people try to find groups that accepted them in the ways they weren’t accepted in their personal lives. He knew this because he thought of himself as one of those people, and was certain that the rest of civilization who lived aimlessly was the same.”
Weapon: Unnamed Arbalest
? ? ?
Subweapon: Unnamed Creel
? ? ?
Element: Earth
Abilities:
? ? ?
Money: 50 credits
Story: To be revealed
Age: 32
Race: Human
Class: Fusileer
Appearance: "He left his home of Balanco at the age of 28, taking the graze of the pastoral sun and the weary frown of fate with him. His skin is wrapped fairly taut around his lanky frame from his unprotected exposure to the desert sun, leaving behind an organic, leathery tan over his skin. The wrinkles on his face started at an early age and at the onset of his late twenties began to dig deep into his squarely canvassed cheekbones. He stopped taking care of the shadows wreathed by his facial hair of a long time ago, leaving a brazen stubble in the wake of his jawline. Too much remote sunshine resulted in dull semicircles for open eyes that were recessed back into the bronzed flesh below his eyes. His eyes, albeit sealed partway on a regular basis, were a distant memento of his youth, the same beautiful blue pupils probing the soul as they did in the early mornings of childhood. Years of front-end husbandry and yardwork swelled his apish hands that were barely webbed between each finger. His head is regularly concealed by a straw hat brimmed eight inches at a concave angle.
Having spent much more time in his life working rather than adventuring, it came to the surprise of few travelers that his raiment is far from glamorous. A breastplate, interweaved with cotton and silk hewn from the fields and stiffened with resin, covers his torso. The breastplate was smithed to fit tightly around his midsection, although the chest region is more bowed out to effectively deflect arrows and gunfire. In order to keep his upper arm muscles from sunburnt stiffness on more demanding days, he wears sleeves of black hempcloth. A crude buckler, sucked the life from the earth's core with the dry, jagged thorns of dead roses ingrained onto the woodwork. Its brittle vines were loosely wrapped around his left forearm and restrained by a pair of under-arm buckles which shielded his wrists and knuckles with a studded leather brace. The tattered remains of a black poncho lay draped loosely over his shoulders, parting at the torso, leaving behind nothing but disorderly scraps at the edges. From the waist below are a pair of slim-fit slacks of white chino fabric, tightened by a rather adorned belt of tools and munitions more accurately described below. His footwear is merely a pair of ankle-length calfskin boots, antiquated from years of travel in the sand. The crepe rubber soles of his boots are stained constantly with tiered flecks of mud and dust motes."
Physique: Lanky
Personality: “Behold his sluggish temerity, for when he paced forward, a slow, teutonic gait mirrored his very spirit. He was taught in the ways of craftsmanship and blistered palms from the decades dedicated to the pasture he nurtured and the seeds he planted. He knew little else in the onset of his youth other than that material desires were a distant mythos from an era of ancient palaces erected from gold and porcelain. In some vacant corner of his headspace, he reserved the uncertainty of the beaten path to what he foresaw below him as the footsteps of the dead. He saw the horizon as a way to remind people of what wasn’t there, to illuminate the epitaphs of men who treaded the same roads he did – and if not, he would be writing history with his own two feet. His goal in adventure besides preserving the will of his people was to preserve the will of the land by charting it himself, and before his being was extinguished, he would leave behind his footsteps in as much untouched territory as possible.
The man did not conduct any business in dialogue. In fact, it seemed almost impossible to understand his thought process from a first glance. He was a mute and all anyone could interpret was the heavily perpetuated frown on his face. The power of the smile to invoke honor and spirit in men was absent in this reticent soul, he was only motivated to practice wariness and security. Nature was unkind at times by gifting him with rainworn crops so he could only imagine the cruelties of humankind. He was used to a strange, primitive form of governance where villagers were their own responsibility, but the decrepit ocean of sand around them forebode death and famine with the carrion outcomes of the miasma reducing the community and sanctity of his home day after day. As such, he stopped living peacefully, but instead lived to make decisions and demand the most out of other people.
He was infatuated with the idea of restorative justice, rehabilitating his enemies instead of outright killing them. He would not arrest criminals at home, he would visit them in prison and teach them how to read, write, and some other valuable practical skills such as accounting and cooking. In the same fashion, he did not end the lives of his opponents unless it was too dire a circumstance. He allied with thieves in the desert and taught them survival skills, giving them a few coins and a map with all the nearest oases and ruins. The idea of a man who resorted to violence was one who was suffering internally. He thought almost all forms of thievery and terrorism could be traced back to a form of status-seeking in which people try to find groups that accepted them in the ways they weren’t accepted in their personal lives. He knew this because he thought of himself as one of those people, and was certain that the rest of civilization who lived aimlessly was the same.”
Weapon: Unnamed Arbalest
? ? ?
Subweapon: Unnamed Creel
? ? ?
Element: Earth
Abilities:
? ? ?
Money: 50 credits
Story: To be revealed