Gelatinous Cube

Tryliin Blues - A Merc's Life

@Expendable

Vex definitely drinks, I'm sure he's run into you on a few occasions.

Tryliin Blues - A Merc's Life

As for pre-existing relationships, I'm open to anything. Vex is a pretty well-traveled guy, being something of a listless nomad. Whether he encountered any of you in a negative or positive context...who knows?

Tryliin Blues - A Merc's Life

-Name: Elias Vex

-Race: Human

-Age: 49

-Appearance: Standing at six feet tall and built of lean muscle, Vex is the very image of an older soldier. You can see it in his rigid stance and purposeful gait, however beset by a limp it may be. The hard lines on his face and the grey rapidly encroaching upon the rich oak of his hair and beard show his age clearly. The thick callouses on his knuckles suggest a man who knows how to throw some mean punches.

-Personality: Vex may come across initially as dry and aloof, yet beneath the exterior is a man who has spent his life fighting for something, and often being screwed for it at the end of the day. Yet, should you display to him a sufficient integrity, he may just end up following you through the gates of hell. Only someone who has been stabbed in the back knows the significance of true loyalty. You'll know he likes you when he cracks a smile at one of your jokes, and you'll know he really likes you when he cracks wise right back at you.

-Equipment: Vex is arriving to Tryliin with less than he'd like. He had to sell a lot of old gear to afford his pills, but he has kept his old .45 service sidearm and flak suit. Somewhere along the way he also procured a beat up, yet reliable combat shotgun and a bandolier of solid slugs.

Around town, Vex favours plain, rugged clothes and sturdy boots. Thankfully his flak suit is just subtle enough to be worn underneath any standard attire.
In lieu of any close-quarters weapons, Vex has his fists, which he can make even better use of with his gloves. With metal pads over the knuckles and heel of the palm they hurt like hell and stabilize the fingers so he has no need to worry about breaking any fingers.
Here's hoping his first proper paycheck can afford him some better gear.

-Abilities: Vex can pick up and use just about any small-arm you give him, though he favours shorter range encounters over distance fights. If he can close the distance on you and put a slug through your brain, or punch your throat into your spine, all the better.
He is perhaps even more adept at beating the absolute living piss out of an opponent owing back to his pugilistic past, yet he's smart enough to know not to try and employ such techniques against any prick with power armour.

He can also use his old injury to his advantage. You'd be surprised how many people fall for the helpless old man bit, only to have their nostrils uppercut right back into their brains for it.

-Bio: Vex started life as a grunt, young and smooth-faced thinking he was going to make his mark on the universe, explore the stars and go on wonderful space-faring adventures.
The fucking naivety of youth, huh?
After graduating basic, he was placed in a planet-side unit on some bumfuck nothing world where the most action he saw was the slap of mop on tile. This wasn't the life he was made for, and he knew it. Yet, he made the most of it. Vex devoted himself to physical and martial discipline, while also diving headfirst into the ancient arts of pugilism. Not a bad way to earn some extra scratch, and there was only so much practice a bag and a sparring partner could provide.

Once his service ended, he declined a second enlistment, instead enrolling in special forces. Surely that had to be the answer, right?
Wrong again.
Yeah, he went on missions, but most of his day-to-day life consisted of being on-call and never away from HQ.

Growing increasingly frustrated by the military life, Vex took his papers and walked away, taking his skills to Markindine. If you asked him about it now, he'd tell you it was the best time of his life, and simultaneously the worst. If you followed up with asking him if it was all worth it? He'd get a far away look in his eyes and fall silent, unable to answer.
He certainly saw a lot of action, but the veneer began to fad and he realized he was just a blunt object sent to displace people from their homes and lives. The company told him they were dangerous rebels and insurgents, that they were the bad guys and the righteous hands of Markindine would be the good folks salvation.
Bullshit, all of it. The folks he killed may have been raining down rapid hell fire upon him, but they were just ordinary men and women trying to protect their homes and way of life.
His final mission with Markindine was supposed to be a typical sweep job. Take the team in and cleanse the land for a new business venture to blossom in its place. Vex took a high-caliber sniper round to the knee that nearly took his whole damn leg off. Half the squad were reduced to ribbons and in the end he and those left were reprimanded for not "maintaining the integrity of the site". He was just a number that cost money, and he had just firmly landed himself in the red. They fixed him up and after the mission that left him, in his words, a cripple and in theirs "operationally unfit", he was discarded with a pittance of a severance pay and a pat on the back. No pension, no thanks for your service...hell, not even a cushy gig at a desk.

All Vex ever wanted was a cause worthy of his life, and a life worthy of his cause. Something those pencil pushers at Markindine would never have known, or cared to even ask. Instead they left him with permanent physical damage and a growing addiction to painkillers.

-Goal: Tryliin is far, far away from any kind of life Vex has. Even though folks call it dead or a wasteland, some even call it hell, there's something almost romantic about the idea of it. Like a pioneer from one of those ancient stories of settlers and pilgrims. Perhaps he'd try his luck with the Rail Riders. They stood for a good cause, and would probably welcome even him. Though rumour has it some upstart named Phoenix wants to start a company. Ex-Silverstone, they say. Man might just put a bullet in Vex's head if he knew he was former Markindine, but life was no fun without the risk. Why not try and set up a meet and greet?

Tryliin Blues - A Merc's Life

I'll move him over tonight when I get home

Tryliin Blues - A Merc's Life

-Name: Elias Vex

-Race: Human

-Age: 49

-Appearance: Standing at six feet tall and built of lean muscle, Vex is the very image of an older soldier. You can see it in his rigid stance and purposeful gait, however beset by a limp it may be. The hard lines on his face and the grey rapidly encroaching upon the rich oak of his hair and beard show his age clearly. The thick callouses on his knuckles suggest a man who knows how to throw some mean punches.

-Personality: Vex may come across initially as dry and aloof, yet beneath the exterior is a man who has spent his life fighting for something, and often being screwed for it at the end of the day. Yet, should you display to him a sufficient integrity, he may just end up following you through the gates of hell. Only someone who has been stabbed in the back knows the significance of true loyalty. You'll know he likes you when he cracks a smile at one of your jokes, and you'll know he really likes you when he cracks wise right back at you.

-Equipment: Vex is arriving to Tryliin with less than he'd like. He had to sell a lot of old gear to afford his pills, but he has kept his old .45 service sidearm and flak suit. Somewhere along the way he also procured a beat up, yet reliable combat shotgun and a bandolier of solid slugs.

Around town, Vex favours plain, rugged clothes and sturdy boots. Thankfully his flak suit is just subtle enough to be worn underneath any standard attire.
In lieu of any close-quarters weapons, Vex has his fists, which he can make even better use of with his gloves. With metal pads over the knuckles and heel of the palm they hurt like hell and stabilize the fingers so he has no need to worry about breaking any fingers.
Here's hoping his first proper paycheck can afford him some better gear.

-Abilities: Vex can pick up and use just about any small-arm you give him, though he favours shorter range encounters over distance fights. If he can close the distance on you and put a slug through your brain, or punch your throat into your spine, all the better.
He is perhaps even more adept at beating the absolute living piss out of an opponent owing back to his pugilistic past, yet he's smart enough to know not to try and employ such techniques against any prick with power armour.

He can also use his old injury to his advantage. You'd be surprised how many people fall for the helpless old man bit, only to have their nostrils uppercut right back into their brains for it.

-Bio: Vex started life as a grunt, young and smooth-faced thinking he was going to make his mark on the universe, explore the stars and go on wonderful space-faring adventures.
The fucking naivety of youth, huh?
After graduating basic, he was placed in a planet-side unit on some bumfuck nothing world where the most action he saw was the slap of mop on tile. This wasn't the life he was made for, and he knew it. Yet, he made the most of it. Vex devoted himself to physical and martial discipline, while also diving headfirst into the ancient arts of pugilism. Not a bad way to earn some extra scratch, and there was only so much practice a bag and a sparring partner could provide.

Once his service ended, he declined a second enlistment, instead enrolling in special forces. Surely that had to be the answer, right?
Wrong again.
Yeah, he went on missions, but most of his day-to-day life consisted of being on-call and never away from HQ.

Growing increasingly frustrated by the military life, Vex took his papers and walked away, taking his skills to Markindine. If you asked him about it now, he'd tell you it was the best time of his life, and simultaneously the worst. If you followed up with asking him if it was all worth it? He'd get a far away look in his eyes and fall silent, unable to answer.
He certainly saw a lot of action, but the veneer began to fad and he realized he was just a blunt object sent to displace people from their homes and lives. The company told him they were dangerous rebels and insurgents, that they were the bad guys and the righteous hands of Markindine would be the good folks salvation.
Bullshit, all of it. The folks he killed may have been raining down rapid hell fire upon him, but they were just ordinary men and women trying to protect their homes and way of life.
His final mission with Markindine was supposed to be a typical sweep job. Take the team in and cleanse the land for a new business venture to blossom in its place. Vex took a high-caliber sniper round to the knee that nearly took his whole damn leg off. Half the squad were reduced to ribbons and in the end he and those left were reprimanded for not "maintaining the integrity of the site". He was just a number that cost money, and he had just firmly landed himself in the red. They fixed him up and after the mission that left him, in his words, a cripple and in theirs "operationally unfit", he was discarded with a pittance of a severance pay and a pat on the back. No pension, no thanks for your service...hell, not even a cushy gig at a desk.

All Vex ever wanted was a cause worthy of his life, and a life worthy of his cause. Something those pencil pushers at Markindine would never have known, or cared to even ask. Instead they left him with permanent physical damage and a growing addiction to painkillers.

-Goal: Tryliin is far, far away from any kind of life Vex has. Even though folks call it dead or a wasteland, some even call it hell, there's something almost romantic about the idea of it. Like a pioneer from one of those ancient stories of settlers and pilgrims. Perhaps he'd try his luck with the Rail Riders. They stood for a good cause, and would probably welcome even him. Though rumour has it some upstart named Phoenix wants to start a company. Ex-Silverstone, they say. Man might just put a bullet in Vex's head if he knew he was former Markindine, but life was no fun without the risk. Why not try and set up a meet and greet?

Tryliin Blues - A Merc's Life

I'm interested in this, if you'll have me.

The Black Delta

Aldrich weighed Jacqueline's words carefully. He certainly did not want a fight that could be avoided, yet with a seemingly savage beast before them, the chance for reason was slim at best.
His mind flashed back to the vicious fighting pits of the Dwemerlocks, and the clawed, fanged beasts he was made to fight. Several of his bodies grisly scars had been courtesy of them. He could still taste the arterial blood in his mouth from the one he had slain with his teeth.

Suppressing a shiver, he said in a low voice to Jacqueline, "Agreed. Flank it on the other side. Both of you attack together and drive it towards me."
With slow, careful movements, Aldrich planted his feet and cradled the boarding pike firmly. He made a hissing sound, drawing the beasts attention to him, holding it's gaze. Once the others attacked, it would force the beast to run towards Aldrich. He would be ready to drive the tip of the pike through it's heart.

The Black Delta

Aldrich listened as the other spoke, offering up their suggestions. Their options were limited to the burning hot beach, or the sweaty humid jungle. Neither prospect held much appeal, but Aldrich was no stranger to harsh conditions. From the moment of waking to now, his sense of awareness had sharpened into focus. The deeply ingrained habits formed from a life of servitude and subjugation were thankfully not lost on him now. It was a bitter kind of gratitude, but one he was in position to balk at. Seeing now that the Captain was alive and - relative to the numerous dead - well, Aldrich began to scan the beach for anything at all he might use. His eyes settled on a snapped and splintered boarding pike. It was roughly about a foot shorter than himself, but upon picking the thing up he felt satisfied enough with its weight, and reassured by the solidity of it in his hands.
As he had stooped down to retrieve it, he noticed a fluttering in the breeze. Walking over to inspect, he found a rough piece of torn parchment, miraculously pinned beneath some detritus from the boat. He gently pried it out and looked it over. It appeared to be a map, though Aldrich could make neither heads or tails of it, a sad holdover of his stunted education. He scowled at the enigmatic document, but kept it all the same. Someone else was bound to be able to decipher it's secrets.

Turning back to the group, now all similarly armed, he offered his own findings.
"Not much to be had here, but I found this. Seems to be a map," he added somewhat sheepishly, "I don't know how to read it." He held it out for someone to take, as he gratefully accepted the water flask from Kjetil. Aldrich was well accustomed to rationing, and would not succumb to the temptation of slaking his thirst, despite how dry his mouth currently was.
"It seems as though the jungle is the popular option," Aldrich reasoned to them, "At the very least we should find some welcome shade, but perhaps we should try not to go too deep. If we can keep the coast in sight, or at least in earshot we may stand a better chance of finding our way."
Though, as he spoke his eyes landed on the peculiar carving at the mouth of the jungle. It's likeness' teeth bared in a ghastly snarl, as if to ward away any would-be interlopers.
Despite the stifling heat of the sun, Aldrich felt a chill descend his spine.

The Black Delta

Aldrich

"Filthy, worthless slave-thing!"
CRACK!
"How come you don't fight?"
CRACK!
"I will beat you until you obey!"
CRACK!

With each punctuating lash of the whip, Aldrich felt himself slipping further and further away from consciousness. His defiance fading with not so much as a sneer, but a whimper. The gutteral language of his Dwemerlock master remained impenetrably foreign to him, though he could scarcely hear it through his pain. However, the most peculiar thing was that the closer he came to passing out entirely, the pain faded and he felt instead a cool, sloshing sensation suffuse his body. His vision blurred, and he began to splutter, confused as the world began to grow increasingly distant and intangible...

...his eyes opened slowly, things coming into focus one sense at a time. First the stark luminescence of sunlight, then the intermingled sensations of warm air, cold water and gritty sand, then the sounds of waves breaking upon the shore and the breeze rustling leaves, followed by the smell of salt and lastly the acrid taste of salt and sandy grit. Each sensation coalesced at once in a nauseating shock that made him cough and heave as he sat up.
He scrambled for memory, to piece together where he was and just what the hell was going on.
Was on the ship...resting above decks...hate the below...too small, stifling...ship...crashed? Must have...

He laboriously got to his feet, feeling the stiffness of his joints and a sharp sting across his chest. Pressing his fingers to the spot they came away red. Peering down he saw that something had torn a ragged hole in his waterlogged jerkin. He unceremoniously tore the useless thing away, leaving him in only his tunic, breeches and boots. Glancing around he saw the telltale sights of a terrible ship-wreck. Bodies had washed up on the shore, bloated and cold and others stumbled around aimlessly on the shore. His sword and shield he now realised would have likely wound up somewhere on the bottom of the sea. He sighed, feeling the rising panic of being unarmed and unprotected. He fought down the anxiety and looked around to take better stock of the situation.

Immediately he noticed a few of the figures who had been part of the voyage, other travelers and vagabonds like himself. Jacqueline, a woman who reminded him in many ways of Erissia, his erstwhile mentor. Kjetil, the quiet Norgardian and Lachlan, who Aldrich struggled to get a read on during his time on the ship. He hadn't spoken much to any of them, opting to observe from a distance any strangers he met. Not to mention, the bitter look on his face at all times usually kept people at bay.
Aldrich raised his voice, addressing any who may respond.
"The Captain...has anyone seen the Captain?" If anyone among them could restore some semblance of order, it would be that salty sea dog.

The Black Delta

Aldrich

Aldrich

Andredian | 30 | Male

Appearance

The first thing an outside observer may notice about Aldrich is his almost perpetual frown. His features severe and eyes always focused and scanning his surroundings in an almost paranoid manner. Beneath his weathered armour lies a body marred by the scars of hardship and abuse, his back a criss-cross of shining white scar tissue left by a vicious lash, as well as a collection of scars on his extremities caused by all manner of martial weapons. Nevertheless he stands tall, with pride hefted on his shoulders and carried with earned dignity.

Personality
When Aldrich speaks, he makes sure not to mince his words. He's blunt to a fault, and never raises his voice, save to bellow a roar of fury towards any opponent unfortunate enough to find itself on the wrong end of his sword. However, were one patient enough, and gentle in their prying they may uncover a rather dry sense of humour, and his own ironclad sense of justice. Justice dispensed at sword point more often than not. Though it must be stressed, that although Aldrich is no stranger to violence, he abhors the battle, and loves only the victory. If he ever appears to be brutal or barbaric in his manner of combat it is only due to his desire to end a conflict quickly and decisively.

Background

• Profession - Man-at-Arms (presently adrift)
• Class - Warrior
• Heritage - Lowborn

History
Aldrich was the son of a farmer who sent his boy off to become a Knight. It was the only way out of the drudgery of peasant life the family had any hope for and Aldrich's parents were all too eager to ship him off. He was placed under the care and tutelage of Lady Erissia, a famed and renowned Knight of The Crimson Guard who trained him in the manners of martial arms and courtly duties. He proved to be a clumsy swordsman, and struggled with reading and writing, yet ever-stubborn Erissia refused to give up on the boy. He eventually became a squire and was able to ride with Erissia and her Knights in battle. It was during a fateful skirmish in the land of the Dwemorlocks that Erissia and her Knights were slain. They were there on a crusade of righteousness, the Dwemerlocks standing against everything they held sacred, and longed to spill their foes blood upon their own shores. Their eagerness would lead to their deaths.
Aldrich, trembling at the sight of his mentor slain before him, anticipated his own death with terrible certainty.
Yet it did not come. Instead, he was captured, enslaved and forced to fight as a prisoner. At first he refused, throwing down the weapons and crying to any gods who may listen to offer him deliverance from his foul captors. His pleas fell of deaf ears, and with each lash of the whip his will was broken down until he learned to spill blood for the sadistic pleasure of the crowds.

It was this way for several years. The clumsy boy who used to fumble and drop his sword was now a hardened warrior who had killed too many men to bother counting. His body had grown accustomed to surviving on whatever rodents or insects he was able to snatch from his cage.
Life changed upon the addition of a new prisoner, one also native to Andred. They found a kinship with one another based on their mutual lineage and similar circumstances. They did their best to keep their friendship a secret, as they each knew it would result in severe punishment. Yet it was enough to return some light and life to Aldrich. The pivotal moment came when he was forced into combat with the man, pitted against him in a battle to the death. Aldrich threw down his sword and shield and loudly refused to fight. The friend he had made, with tears in his eyes, plead for him to strike him down. His willingness to sacrifice his own life for Aldrich only enforced his refusal. How could he kill this man who displayed such noble grace, in this land where nobility seemed strange and foreign? Aldrich was lashed to unconciousness right there, but not before he was made to watch his only friend run through.

Unbeknownst to Aldrich, a visiting Basilean noble on a mission of diplomacy had been in attendance. Lady Viera DeFeis was moved by the the man who refused to fight, even after he was shredded to pieces by the cruel whip. She negotiated his sale, and they were all too happy to be rid of the troublesome slave.
Now liberated from the Dwemorlocks he returned with her to her homeland where he served as her bodyguard until her death from illness where he was released from service. With nowhere left to call home, he took to the roads, taking advantage of his freedom to see the world. Lady DeFeis had often told him of the exotic locales her travels had taken her to and he longed to experience the same. Too many years shackled in a small cage left him with a deep yearning for freedom.

Reason for Travel
With no place left to call home, Aldrich felt the call of the uncharted southern lands. He felt compelled him to make his way there, and he managed to scrounge enough money to book passage aboard the Skirmisher.

Motivation/Goal
Aldrich longs to find a home to settle down, yet also has to quell the disparity in his heart and overcome the traumas of his past.

Capabilities

Despite his initial incompetence, Aldrich became a fearsome swordsman, favouring a sword and shield combination. He can also make deadly use of a shield in a pinch. His fighting style lacks finesse, yet makes up for it in pure ferocity.
Due to years of staving off starvation by eating whatever he could get his hands on, he developed tremendous constitution, able to weather the effects of disease and poison beyond what a regular man might.

Equipment

Money

Languages
Northern

---