2113
06-11-08, 12:44 PM
Name: Chalk
Age: 23
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Yellow
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 225 pounds.
Occupation: Mercenary
Personality: Chalk is a very simple man, feeling little else but a constant irritation for his surroundings that can very quickly escalate into a violent outburst. The mercenary is very rarely at peace. Even in his sleep he is plagued by nightmares. It’s difficult to pin a label on him; while his actions at times help people for the greater good, he often picks fights for no reason aside from quenching his boredom. Chalk is incredibly stubborn; if he believes that two and two make five, he will angrily insist you are wrong for telling him the correct answer is four.
Appearance: Chalk is a tall, brawny man with brown hair and yellow eyes, whose form is built for endurance and strength rather than speed. His nose is slightly crooked from the few times it has been broken. He often gives off the impression of severity, and people tend to become uncomfortable from the cold anger that hides just beyond his thought to be permanent scowl. Chalk takes little interest in his appearance; his face is often dark with stubble, his hair is unevenly cut, and he is clad in a gray long sleeved thermal shirt and denim jeans, both of which are dirty, stained, and very worn looking.
History: Chalk.
It was all he ever really knew. It was his foundation and rock during the darker times, what he clung to with fingers bloody with split flesh. He was aware that his parents had given him a different name, but that had been many years ago, in a time when his nose hadn’t been clogged with clotted blood. Chalk was a name he’d gotten somewhere, in a bar or a labor camp, though how it had found him and who had first called him it was lost.
The man they called Chalk had been bore in Salvar and was one of the faceless masses. He was a laborer by trade – he carved stones and dug up metal, cut trees for lumber and laid bricks. He was quiet, walking each day to his site of work with nothing but the work in mind. Chalk had very few friends, and those friends that he made were distant drinking buddies. One thing everyone knew was that Chalk had a temper.
It was rarely a problem but when his anger was incited, Chalk and whoever he was squaring off with would come out so violently bruised and bloody that they’d both miss a week or two of work. It was expected that if he wasn’t so bull headed, he’d manage to get out of most of the brawls, but Chalk always refused to back down.
So it was when he was drafted by the Salvarian military that the trouble started.
Chalk initially refused the first summons, and when an officer came to take him, Chalk brutally thrashed him. While he knew nothing about it, and neither did anyone else, but the land was in the middle of a civil war. The workhorse Chalk hated both the church and the state – he’d been saving money for a ticket to Corone. A few days after he’d beaten the officer bloody, a cluster of soldiers came and took him by force.
Thrust into a forced labor camp by the state, Chalk was beaten often, sometimes simply fists, other times with truncheons or steel rods. He grew used to the taste of blood, and to the feeling of pain. They tried to label him as an agent of the church, tried to force him to confess to crimes of conspiracy, assassination, of selling military secrets. Always he kept his teeth clenched, giving his tormentors nothing but grunts and laughter for their efforts. A year or so passed, and after some time, Chalk came to embrace his fury and hate, found that it gave him strength and numbed him from the blows. Chalk waited and bled, constantly studying the soldiers.
One mistake was all that he needed, and he got it one day. The soldiers, believing him weak from the constant stream of abuse, sent one guard to fetch him for his meal of grimy bread and watery stew. Once Chalk knew that the guard was alone, he sprang up and drove the guard to the floor and positioned himself on the man’s chest. A terrible excitement burned through him as he brought his fist down on the guard’s face again and again. Blood flowed from broken teeth and split lips. The face quickly went from raw and red to mushy and nearly black as the bones began to crack and cave in.
Chalk stole the dead guard’s knife and slipped out of the camp. It had been so very long since he’d felt so happy – he was nearly giddy from what he’d just done. Anger and hate had dominated his life, and now he knew where to turn it...the Church and State would burn.
Skills:
War Credentials
Unsurprisingly, Chalk has exhibited skill in hand to hand combat. While there is no clear style, it seems to be a mix of boxing and submission, with a dash of the unexplainable. He is a capable fighter, and is considered to be above average in his skill. His use of the knife, however, has not had the time to become polished, and is considered an average fighter with a short blade.
Abilities:
The Wall
Chalk is capable of enduring punishment and work that most other human beings would consider horrible and grueling, respectfully. Unlike others, Chalk can lose one and a half times the amount of blood that would make a man fall into unconsciousness. He is comfortable with running without rest for a sum of two and a half hours before needing to pause, and can continue to move even if he has not had food or drink for more than four days. Chalk can shrug off minor wounds without trouble, and as a testament to his stubbornness; can even walk on a broken leg without having it set.
Equipment:
The Knife
A twelve inch knife with a seven inch steel blade. The blade, guard, and pommel has been coated with non-reflective matte black paint, both to reduce reflected light and give it a little more protection from corrosion. The knife is worn on a brown leather sheath strapped to his left thigh.
Age: 23
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Yellow
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 225 pounds.
Occupation: Mercenary
Personality: Chalk is a very simple man, feeling little else but a constant irritation for his surroundings that can very quickly escalate into a violent outburst. The mercenary is very rarely at peace. Even in his sleep he is plagued by nightmares. It’s difficult to pin a label on him; while his actions at times help people for the greater good, he often picks fights for no reason aside from quenching his boredom. Chalk is incredibly stubborn; if he believes that two and two make five, he will angrily insist you are wrong for telling him the correct answer is four.
Appearance: Chalk is a tall, brawny man with brown hair and yellow eyes, whose form is built for endurance and strength rather than speed. His nose is slightly crooked from the few times it has been broken. He often gives off the impression of severity, and people tend to become uncomfortable from the cold anger that hides just beyond his thought to be permanent scowl. Chalk takes little interest in his appearance; his face is often dark with stubble, his hair is unevenly cut, and he is clad in a gray long sleeved thermal shirt and denim jeans, both of which are dirty, stained, and very worn looking.
History: Chalk.
It was all he ever really knew. It was his foundation and rock during the darker times, what he clung to with fingers bloody with split flesh. He was aware that his parents had given him a different name, but that had been many years ago, in a time when his nose hadn’t been clogged with clotted blood. Chalk was a name he’d gotten somewhere, in a bar or a labor camp, though how it had found him and who had first called him it was lost.
The man they called Chalk had been bore in Salvar and was one of the faceless masses. He was a laborer by trade – he carved stones and dug up metal, cut trees for lumber and laid bricks. He was quiet, walking each day to his site of work with nothing but the work in mind. Chalk had very few friends, and those friends that he made were distant drinking buddies. One thing everyone knew was that Chalk had a temper.
It was rarely a problem but when his anger was incited, Chalk and whoever he was squaring off with would come out so violently bruised and bloody that they’d both miss a week or two of work. It was expected that if he wasn’t so bull headed, he’d manage to get out of most of the brawls, but Chalk always refused to back down.
So it was when he was drafted by the Salvarian military that the trouble started.
Chalk initially refused the first summons, and when an officer came to take him, Chalk brutally thrashed him. While he knew nothing about it, and neither did anyone else, but the land was in the middle of a civil war. The workhorse Chalk hated both the church and the state – he’d been saving money for a ticket to Corone. A few days after he’d beaten the officer bloody, a cluster of soldiers came and took him by force.
Thrust into a forced labor camp by the state, Chalk was beaten often, sometimes simply fists, other times with truncheons or steel rods. He grew used to the taste of blood, and to the feeling of pain. They tried to label him as an agent of the church, tried to force him to confess to crimes of conspiracy, assassination, of selling military secrets. Always he kept his teeth clenched, giving his tormentors nothing but grunts and laughter for their efforts. A year or so passed, and after some time, Chalk came to embrace his fury and hate, found that it gave him strength and numbed him from the blows. Chalk waited and bled, constantly studying the soldiers.
One mistake was all that he needed, and he got it one day. The soldiers, believing him weak from the constant stream of abuse, sent one guard to fetch him for his meal of grimy bread and watery stew. Once Chalk knew that the guard was alone, he sprang up and drove the guard to the floor and positioned himself on the man’s chest. A terrible excitement burned through him as he brought his fist down on the guard’s face again and again. Blood flowed from broken teeth and split lips. The face quickly went from raw and red to mushy and nearly black as the bones began to crack and cave in.
Chalk stole the dead guard’s knife and slipped out of the camp. It had been so very long since he’d felt so happy – he was nearly giddy from what he’d just done. Anger and hate had dominated his life, and now he knew where to turn it...the Church and State would burn.
Skills:
War Credentials
Unsurprisingly, Chalk has exhibited skill in hand to hand combat. While there is no clear style, it seems to be a mix of boxing and submission, with a dash of the unexplainable. He is a capable fighter, and is considered to be above average in his skill. His use of the knife, however, has not had the time to become polished, and is considered an average fighter with a short blade.
Abilities:
The Wall
Chalk is capable of enduring punishment and work that most other human beings would consider horrible and grueling, respectfully. Unlike others, Chalk can lose one and a half times the amount of blood that would make a man fall into unconsciousness. He is comfortable with running without rest for a sum of two and a half hours before needing to pause, and can continue to move even if he has not had food or drink for more than four days. Chalk can shrug off minor wounds without trouble, and as a testament to his stubbornness; can even walk on a broken leg without having it set.
Equipment:
The Knife
A twelve inch knife with a seven inch steel blade. The blade, guard, and pommel has been coated with non-reflective matte black paint, both to reduce reflected light and give it a little more protection from corrosion. The knife is worn on a brown leather sheath strapped to his left thigh.