[center][img] http://i.imgur.com/90seP1Q.jpg [/img] 
(He'd look almost exactly like this, save for the facial features.)

[b]Dieter Aubrecht[/b]
34|5’9|Male [/center]
[ S Y N O P S I S ]

[indent]A stoic, solemnly silent individual, with stormy gray eyes and grim features to match. He dons an old, military-issued overcoat, with a slender, heavy-hitting rifle slung over one shoulder. A revolver hangs snugly from his hip, accompanied by a peculiar, curved knife; across from it, a weather-worn gas mask. Overall, he looks more the part of a soldier gone AWOL than a man with 12 years of service beneath his belt.[/indent]

[ A P P E A R A N C E ]

[indent]Dieter Aubrecht carries himself with a proud, unassuming posture, likely one of the results of serving 12 years in the armed service. Standing at 5’9, however, an equally sound explanation may be that he’s trying to make himself look taller. Beneath what’s usually a worn, military-issued button-up overcoat is a surprisingly strong man, used to the trials and toil of long trips into the wilderness; indeed, his thick, mostly undefined musculature is developed more out of necessity, than a need to look good. He possesses a fair complexion, his chiseled, angular topped off by short, dirty-blonde hair, adorned by darker, bushy eyebrows and kept warm thanks to a short, neatly-trimmed beard, the like of which is accentuated by a handlebar mustache. Above the roughened, weather-worn overcoat, he wears a sandy-colored bandoleer over and across one shoulder, as well as a satchel over and across the other, both of which are tied off to his sun-bleached belt, for the sake of securing it snugly, in the case he has to run off in an instant. On this same belt rests a leather holster, emblazoned with his initials, holding within its confines the distinctive, arching grip of a revolver; besides it is a sheathed, curved hunting knife, likely for when things get up close and personal. On the opposite side of these additions hangs a menacing, seemingly unnecessary gas mask; a relic of a war long past, a counter to a weapon long since banned, supposedly. It’s curious, at the most. Overall, he looks more the part of a soldier gone AWOL, than a befitting, seaworthy crew member.  [/indent]

[ P E R S O N A L I T Y ]

[indent]Despite his usually sullen silence and stoic, cynical demeanor, he’s a resilient, resourceful individual, who knows more than he often lets off. Anti-social behavior is one of his recognizable staples, and getting the outwardly grim-seeming man to smile is a feat in itself; however, those who do find a chink in his stubborn, cold demeanor are usually gifted by his surprising kindness, and sympathy, virtues that he almost fears to show in public, for more reasons than one. He’s sensible, and, to an extent, humble, as long as the conversation never turns to criticisms over his skill at arms. As for political matters, Dieter is a staunch advocate for Ghersland indepedence, though will usually stay out of any politically charged conversations[/indent]

[ H I S T O R Y ]

[indent]Born upon an oft forgotten, diminutive isle, Dieter lived a particularly boring childhood. Constantly hounded by his ex-pilot drunk of a father, he found solace in the craggy hillsides and sparse forests of his small, cut off homeland, often thinking of the nature about him as the mother he never had. Despite enduring rather regular beatings, he never thought about running away; on an island whose seas rest hundreds of meters below you, there truly was nowhere to run. On occasion, he’d sit by the eternally floating cliff sides, gazing upon the distant, hulking islands with an anxious longing. “One day,” he used to say to himself, “I’ll see them all.” 

The amount of pain that'd been inflicted upon him, the sheer vastness of the world he could see yet never set foot on and the maddeningly small size of the floating rock he called home would lead him down would temper this once wistful thinking into a physical ideal; a promise, to no one but himself. 

Such a promise would prove to be a determined Dieter's lifelong drive; his reason worth living. However, such a dream required money; something he and his own had sorely lacked for as long as he could remember. He knew his father owned an old, canvas-wrapped rifle, the like of which he kept hidden beneath the moth-chewed bed he had once shared with his wife; if he could sell that, there was no doubt in his mind that he could find a way off this rock. After much grief and convincing, his recalcitrant father gifted him the old, weather-worn rifle he himself had once been given during his time in the service, on the heart-rending condition that he’d never sell or mistreat it; telling his son to instead go out into the wilderness of which he was so fond, and hunt. Despite the animosity he had for the man, Aubrecht saw through his glassy, drunken eyes, and thought he recognized sadness. The boy had yet to know sympathy, and it would take a deep toll on him.  So he decided not to sell the rifle, and follow his father’s advice, even if it took just a little longer than planned. For several years, he would haul back game to sell in the local village market, or offer his services to farmers whom needed to rid themselves of pests; in essence, this time-tested weapon granted him the opportunity to carry out the very dream he was so keen on seeing through, and simultaneously become a proficient rifleman.  

Having garnered enough money to take the first ship out of the place he’d called home for sixteen years, he bid farewell to his father, a man who, despite the pain and suffering he’d inflicted on his firstborn, finally found the words to say he was sorry. 

After reaching the nearby main island of Ghersland, the protagonist of this short tale found the military to be the ultimate way to see the world he had for so long ached to see, and joined up without question, initiating a career that would last him 12 years. The dream he'd had since boyhood, the escape he'd longed for; it was all now at his fingertips. The best part about it? He was getting paid for it! What could go wrong? 

When you're a soldier on the fringe of a tense border, the answer would be alot. 

Now 34 years old, this grizzled, hollow mercenary finds his way onto the UIS Garrloch crew’s roster, joining one of many on yet another opportunity to see the world.[/indent]
[ N O T E S / O T H E R  I N F O ]

[indent]Within his rough, military-issue canvas satchel, he holds a small, leather-bound journal, the like of which contains the carefully-written insights into his many travels, battles, and adventures; however, to see it would mean to be incredibly close to the typically stoic, anti-social sharpshooter. Besides this are many other little objects that play into his life, the like of which he’s always carried with him, almost as if it were a superstition of sorts.
Despite the age of his rifle, it is in remarkably good condition, likely owing to its owner’s almost doting care for it. [/indent]