Irongut
11-16-08, 04:07 AM
Hello! ~looks around~ It's been a while, but I had a couple characters here for just a short time before school-work and general laziness stole me away. Now I'm craving some pbp RPing, and this seemed like the place to go.
Name: Bor Borsen. ‘Irongut’
Age: 28
Race: Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6'6"
Weight: 255 lbs
Occupation: One-time pit fighter, now a ‘man of peace.’
Personality: Bor’s a man who likes simple things in large quantities. Give him a hot meal, a cold beer, and a bed without too many fleas, and he’ll gladly thank you for it. “Don’t be going asking too much from life,” he’d say. “She’s a fickle one, life is, and she’ll string you up by your insides faster’n nothin’, ‘she catches you grabbing for more’n your share.” Yes, if there’s one thing the Irongut has more of a taste for than a hard drink, it’s living to see tomorrow. Bor’s a man who’s happy with what he has, because he knows it can and will be much worse.
Bor’s got a laugh like thunder gone terribly wrong, and he’ll share with anyone, much to the world’s dismay. Now, no one but a blind and deaf man would be calling Irongut charming, but he’s a good man who’ll help you out in a pinch, and never hurt nobody ‘didn’t earn it if he didn’t need to. Leastwise, didn’t hurt them too much. Bor may have the manners of a boar, but he won’t do wrong by you.
Appearance: Bor’s a big, ugly, man. Broad and muscular, with skin like dark red clay that’s been cooked longer than’d be wise. He’s got shaggy black hair that he keeps short, and is usually something approaching clean-shaven, when he can help it. He’s got more scars than most men, and he looks like he might’ve been smashed in the face one too many times, but for someone coming out of his line of work, he can (and does) count himself proud that he doesn’t look like someone shoved him through a meat grinder. On his right shoulder blade the pit brand is still visible.
Bor normally wears plain, sturdy traveler’s clothes, trousers held up by a wide leather belt, and a big cloak ‘round his shoulders. He rarely carries a weapon. His feet are shod by a damn fine pair of boots; look like they’ll be walking the world long after he’s dead and gone.
History: The Irongut was born in a harsh land far to the south, where hard men work under a hard sun. Bor’s family was poorer than most, and his youth wasn’t an easy one. As the years wore on things were bleak, and there was no way the family could support itself. Now, Bor’s father (with whom he shares his name) was never a good man, and seeing very few other choices he liked much, he sold Bor, who had always been big and tough, to the Pits.
The Pits were a collection of gladiatorial arenas that formed his homeland’s primary form of entertainment. No one’d call pit fighting a safe line of work, so they were always looking for new blood. At twelve he had his first match; him with a plain spear against starving hound nearly as big as he was. If he killed it, he’d live another day. As it was, he had to be carried out with a dislocated shoulder and a fine set of teeth-marks in his thigh.
But he survived, and he kept on fighting, and he kept on surviving. Man or beast, he soaked the sand in blood, both his and theirs'. By the time he was twenty, he had a name for himself. He was the Irongut, and people knew it. He was a cherished possession, and his owners made sure he had food, and drink, and women; anything he had an appetite for. As long as he kept winning.
For years more he fought, and won, with no end in sight. But Bor was made for freedom, or so he told himself. And so one night, when his owners were drunk off of their winnings and their wine, he managed to escape with the help of a servant. Stealing the clothes (and gold) from a traveling merchant, he bought passage on the first boat leaving for somewhere very far away, where the sun didn't beat down like a hammer, and the name 'Irongut' meant nothing.
Skills:
Pit fighter: Up until very recently, fighting was Bor’s whole life. He’s never had any formal training in combat, but he’s learned a few tricks in twenty years of survival. Bor fights hard, ugly, and fast. Give him a sword, he’ll fight with a sword. Give him an axe, he’ll fight with an axe. Don’t give him anything, well, he’ll fight with his fists, or whatever’s handy. But he’ll always fight dirty. Bor's about average with most all sorts of common weapons; exotic weapons from far-off lands or made for strange races... he can't say he's ever so much as laid eyes on 'em.
Tough: The Irongut didn’t get his name for nothing. He’s lived a hard life, and he’d tell you that he can take one more hit or down one more beer than any man alive, excepting them that he can’t.
Equipment: Nothing but the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet and a pack with all the traveling essentials for a man of peace like himself.
Name: Bor Borsen. ‘Irongut’
Age: 28
Race: Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6'6"
Weight: 255 lbs
Occupation: One-time pit fighter, now a ‘man of peace.’
Personality: Bor’s a man who likes simple things in large quantities. Give him a hot meal, a cold beer, and a bed without too many fleas, and he’ll gladly thank you for it. “Don’t be going asking too much from life,” he’d say. “She’s a fickle one, life is, and she’ll string you up by your insides faster’n nothin’, ‘she catches you grabbing for more’n your share.” Yes, if there’s one thing the Irongut has more of a taste for than a hard drink, it’s living to see tomorrow. Bor’s a man who’s happy with what he has, because he knows it can and will be much worse.
Bor’s got a laugh like thunder gone terribly wrong, and he’ll share with anyone, much to the world’s dismay. Now, no one but a blind and deaf man would be calling Irongut charming, but he’s a good man who’ll help you out in a pinch, and never hurt nobody ‘didn’t earn it if he didn’t need to. Leastwise, didn’t hurt them too much. Bor may have the manners of a boar, but he won’t do wrong by you.
Appearance: Bor’s a big, ugly, man. Broad and muscular, with skin like dark red clay that’s been cooked longer than’d be wise. He’s got shaggy black hair that he keeps short, and is usually something approaching clean-shaven, when he can help it. He’s got more scars than most men, and he looks like he might’ve been smashed in the face one too many times, but for someone coming out of his line of work, he can (and does) count himself proud that he doesn’t look like someone shoved him through a meat grinder. On his right shoulder blade the pit brand is still visible.
Bor normally wears plain, sturdy traveler’s clothes, trousers held up by a wide leather belt, and a big cloak ‘round his shoulders. He rarely carries a weapon. His feet are shod by a damn fine pair of boots; look like they’ll be walking the world long after he’s dead and gone.
History: The Irongut was born in a harsh land far to the south, where hard men work under a hard sun. Bor’s family was poorer than most, and his youth wasn’t an easy one. As the years wore on things were bleak, and there was no way the family could support itself. Now, Bor’s father (with whom he shares his name) was never a good man, and seeing very few other choices he liked much, he sold Bor, who had always been big and tough, to the Pits.
The Pits were a collection of gladiatorial arenas that formed his homeland’s primary form of entertainment. No one’d call pit fighting a safe line of work, so they were always looking for new blood. At twelve he had his first match; him with a plain spear against starving hound nearly as big as he was. If he killed it, he’d live another day. As it was, he had to be carried out with a dislocated shoulder and a fine set of teeth-marks in his thigh.
But he survived, and he kept on fighting, and he kept on surviving. Man or beast, he soaked the sand in blood, both his and theirs'. By the time he was twenty, he had a name for himself. He was the Irongut, and people knew it. He was a cherished possession, and his owners made sure he had food, and drink, and women; anything he had an appetite for. As long as he kept winning.
For years more he fought, and won, with no end in sight. But Bor was made for freedom, or so he told himself. And so one night, when his owners were drunk off of their winnings and their wine, he managed to escape with the help of a servant. Stealing the clothes (and gold) from a traveling merchant, he bought passage on the first boat leaving for somewhere very far away, where the sun didn't beat down like a hammer, and the name 'Irongut' meant nothing.
Skills:
Pit fighter: Up until very recently, fighting was Bor’s whole life. He’s never had any formal training in combat, but he’s learned a few tricks in twenty years of survival. Bor fights hard, ugly, and fast. Give him a sword, he’ll fight with a sword. Give him an axe, he’ll fight with an axe. Don’t give him anything, well, he’ll fight with his fists, or whatever’s handy. But he’ll always fight dirty. Bor's about average with most all sorts of common weapons; exotic weapons from far-off lands or made for strange races... he can't say he's ever so much as laid eyes on 'em.
Tough: The Irongut didn’t get his name for nothing. He’s lived a hard life, and he’d tell you that he can take one more hit or down one more beer than any man alive, excepting them that he can’t.
Equipment: Nothing but the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet and a pack with all the traveling essentials for a man of peace like himself.