Browse wiki

What does the world expect of a boy orphaned on the day of his birth? Left for dead - but found and brought up by serfs? A young boy who tried to make a living in the city? Odd jobs, hard labor, theft, joining a gang. Whatever kept him fed. But the blade paid the best. Mercenary work, from the age of fourteen. This band of sellswords for a year or two, then the next, gaining skill, experience, gear and spilling more blood than a man would care to speak of, let alone experience, in a single lifetime. Years stretch into the abyss when you live a life on the road, reaching into the far corners of Arvum. But time has brought him back to Arx and life goes on.

War-torn, struggle and conflict have sculpted this man's dense musculature and stout frame. Numerous gashes, faded scars and dents decorate hard, pale flesh. His ashen blonde hair has been shorn close to his skull, cauliflower ears on display. Ice blue eyes rest on either side of a blunt, crooked nose, oddly soft and calming despite his violent appearance. A bullish neck, subtle blue veins visible beneath his faded skin, supports a squared jaw and a rough, dimpled chin.

You don't have much time for pleasantries when you've been on the warpath since the day you were born. Granted, mercenaries tend to have the best sense of humor - especially when you throw alcohol into the mix. Of course, such individuals are also known for their disposition towards violence and for their knack of telling unnerving tales of their history with a sword.