Approved Dalton Kalshenetta (0)

Name: Dalton Kalshenetta
Age: 24
Race: Human
Hair Color: Red
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 210 lbs.
Occupation: Laborer, addict, fledgling necromancer

Personality
Nervous and excitable, Dalton is a roller coaster of highs and lows, great to be around when he's on top of the world, and impossible to find when he's at the bottom of the barrel. His rapid mood swings and bouts of anxiety make him a challenge to keep as a friend, but bull headed stubbornness gives him something of a magnetic charm. Unfortunately it also causes him a great deal of trouble. Often he has trouble lifting his head away from the stone to see he's not pushing it uphill anymore, but against a wall, so to say. As is the story of many young men of the Blok, Dalton developed a complex to present himself as haggard, crude, and strong, but at his core, he finds himself attracted to things of finer quality, of bookish academics, flowing poetry, and obscure art. This colored him a little different from the others, forcing him to develop a thick skin of sarcasm and stock a wide lexicon of obscure insults with which to spear his tormentors, as he made his unusual interests no secret. Dalton feels his potential is being wasted toiling away in the factories, and getting stoned in the Blok, and will jump at anything to achieve wealth and fame.

Appearance
Dalton is a tall, lean, and strong young man with apple-red hair that falls to his shoulders and begins to curl at the tips. He has ever present dark circles under his eyes, earlobes peirced with three iron rings on either side, and arms covered in odd and often, poorly designed tattoos given by old friends from the Blok. A brown hide jacket, sleeveless white cotton shirt, brown hide pants, an iron chain necklace, a pair of iron ring bracelets, and a smirk are his uniform. The yellow book his mother left him is always secured to the left side of his hip by a thick leather belt that would be nearly impossible to cut with a common street blade.

Equipment
Ten inch iron octagonal club with a worn leather grip
Eight inch chipped iron hiltless knife with a bandaged grip
A red and yellow glass pipe
A dented and tarnished brass stash box, no wider than a finger
The Yellow Book

Skills
Laborer - Dalton is a skilled laborer, and takes great pride in how fast he learns, and how capable he is with his hands. He is capable of assembling any simple item and some intricate items once he's seen it done once, and even as awful as his memory is, he rarely forgets how to do it.
Brawler - Dalton spent all his childhood fist fighting with his friends, boys and girls alike, and found himself dominating them as he grew older and larger than the others. He is a strong unarmed combatant, and can also utilize small handheld weapons (i.e. knives, cudgels) with an above average ability.
Cultured Arse - His parent's weird tastes were inherited by Dalton, and he is familiar with the songs, writing, and art of most ancient and contemporary composers, authors, and musicians. He's able to get it right about sixty percent of the time, but that's much better than any mud eating serf out there.
Pharmacist - Dalton knows every drug available in Corone, what it looks like, about how much it should cost, what it'll do to you, how much you should take to make it do it to you, and what people try to pass off as fakes. He's not nearly as familiar with foreign substances though he has heard of them, and in particular, wants to try the dunedrops in Fallien.

Abilities
The Bends - Dalton can produce an aura colored a deep purple, black, and dingy yellow that simulates the sensations of mild, first on-set substance withdrawals. These include mild nausea, shakiness, cold sweats, and mild fatigue. While characters of a higher level can resist these effects, they will still feel a general sense of unease and restlessness, but nothing physically negative. The aura will effect anyone in a three meter radius and can be maintained for four posts with a two post cooldown.
Narcan - Dalton can resurrect a single corpse by drawing a sigil on its right cheek by mixing his and the corpse's blood. The corpse can not, either by it's own will or his, move, but iut can speak to him, though it is forced to answer truthfully, and will divulge any secrets it may have possessed. The spirit will remain in the body for up to three posts, but Dalton can dismiss it earlier by drawing the same glyph backwards on its left cheek.
Bloodshot - Dalton can faintly see ghosts, human spirits and inhuman, everywhere he goes. The effect is amplified when he's high, so that the spirits are more defined, clearer, and can speak to him, but they almost always tell lies. They can also touch him physically when he'd under the influence, which is often not the greatest thing in the world for him.

History
The Blok is the name for one of the most vicious, unforgiving, and drug addled inner city blocks in the middle of the sprawl of Corone. If you can't forge a sword, swing a sword, or sell a sword, you usually end up in a place like this, working in the factories making the muntions and goods for the Coronian military. And if you're very unlucky, you're born there, like Dalton Kalshenetta.

His early years were quite typical of any youth of the Blok; as a child he played with the other grimy kids in little more than burlap sacks for clothing, often unsupervised, began smoking tobacco around ten behind his parents back, his father abandoned the family and left the Blok around his eleventh birthday, and he began smoking sharpleaf with his tobacco at twelve with his friends, eventually graduating to simply snorting it a year after at thirteen when he began working in the cannon fuse factory.

At fourteren, after another restless, sleepless night from the dull throbbing ache in his hands, Dalton came to a realization that only about five percent of the Blok have; he didn't want to waste away assembling firing mechanisms for the rest of his life, forever broke from his habits, being miserable because he was broke and sober, an endless feedback loop from the Antifirmanent. Dalton's parents, Cathe and Faire, had always been the "weird" ones of the Blok, spending extra pocket cash on foreign books and art, presumably just to be different. He had been immersed in colors, words, and smells that were far more vibrant than the dreary browns and grays of his neighborhood, and dreamed of seeing more. Becoming more. He waned to drink wine out of the bottle on the pristine streets of Raiera, spit of an airship in Alerar, fuck sun kissed tribe girls in Fallien. But every time he would start saving and abstaining for a boating pass out of Corone, he'd start getting the shakes. When his mother disappeared without a goodbye from the Blok when he was eighteen, Dalton spiralled into a deeper depression and suffered his first overdose after a violent week long bender.

But Cathe didn't leave without a goodbye. Dalton found it one afternoon after a breakfast of throwing up his guts and then crawling to his parent's bedroom to rummage about for anything they may have stashed away. He found a yellow hide covered book, only as thick as his hand, hidden in a false bottom of his father's old dusty desk. On the inside of the book, scribbled on the very first page, was his mother's farewell.
"They're calling me, Dilly Dally. Dad's there too. Momma loves you, you'll understand soon. The book will help."
And it did. He didn't think it would, since all the words in it were bizarre circles, curves, triangles, and squares, but he found he could read it. And it told him so much. It told him how to make his own company, to learn grave secrets, and how to get a better high than any drug in the Blok.