[hider=Silas King] [center][img]http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/187/6/f/Silas_by_2013.png[/img] "I'm afraid you won't survive the night. This will hurt a great deal. I'm not sorry."[/center] Name: Silas King Title: "Spiritbreaker" Age: 36 Sex: Male [hider=Appearance: A Man Built to Weather] There is no way around the admission that Silas King is a big man. He stands head and shoulders above most, and that even is disregarding the unusual breadth of his shoulders and chest, the impressive musculature of his arms and thighs. Robust, one might say, though he carries himself as well as any gentleman can be expected to. Though his lips are wide and somewhat bland they bear his most obvious scars, one even pulling them into something sardonic as it tugs at the memory of a bottle. It does not make him look cheerful. Strong chinned and classically boned, he watches the world through deep-set slate, his brow ever furrowed in frustration or in thought. Though he feigns gentility he is a thing for breaking and battering and it shows in his heaviness, craggy features carved from stone. Nowhere, however, is this more apparent than his hands--massive things with powerful knuckles, thick fingers and sturdy nails. Leathery and well worn, he gloves them to hide the nicks and cuts that should hardly be present for the man he pretends himself to be. The seal of his station rests on his breast above his heart. He can feel it, as it beats, as he always has. He speaks quite softly for a man of his size, a rumble as much felt as heard, and such dislikes crowds.[/hider] [hider=Personality: To Study the Statue] It has taken Silas King a great deal of time to come to terms with that fact that men like him were born to end lives. In another time he might have been a hero, striding across battlefields laying waste to any insolent enough to challenge him, but in the city of Penumbra his talents are found considerably less savory. Since he was a boy he has had quite the temper, and for a man like Silas this has caused him a great number of tragedies. Though once upon a time he lived to make the best of things, to ignore the call to arms that beats on his chest with every breath he has finally been forced to accept that civility and normality are simply not in his cards. That it came at the cost of his wife and child was a tragedy, a price unwillingly paid, but rather than wallow he chooses to accept. Emotional pragmatism, then, is his bylaw, control his native state. He is reserved in the extreme, bottling his passion with such ferocity that he often is accused of being as cold as the statues he so loves to examine in his free time. At best a good puzzle and at worst a nuisance, he cares little for others yet feels a need to understand them, a paradox that frustrates him as much as anything. He wastes little sentiment on mercy or guilt, lamenting the loss of control far more than either as he pursues his duties. He enjoys a fine drink, scotch if on hand.[/hider] [hider=Backstory: The Recollections of Mary Harlan] They say he kicked his way out. They say she burst like a balloon, all raspberry jam and meaty porridge. It was a rough old time of it, the girls that remember it prattle on when Master King wasn't about. Scrubbing out that mess, well, they couldn't manage it, could they? Had to toss the whole bedding, awful waste you ask me, but they couldn't very well just shop out the Lady's four poster. It's still there, if you go poking around where you ought not to, locked up in the old regency room with the rest of her Lady's things. They say all the fresh sheets in the world can't hide that brickabrack mess her little beastie made of her, all popped open like a Christmas cracker. Ask anyone. The only ones won't wag on about it are those that were there, and mum's the word for them lot. All they talk about is birthmarks and the devil to pay, silly old things. ------ You seen what that little lad's done now? Quite the temper he's got, little Silas, but mighty God if he's not strong as an ox. Never seen toys broken up like that, all gone to splinters in his fat little fingers, and Lord above don't you let him get hold of you. Heard one of the girls screaming her bloody head off the other day, no lie, going on that he ripped her sodding ear off, and I'd never believe a thing at all out of Millie Thomas but for what I found cleaning that little beast's playpen. All tucked away in a corner like a pup that's done wrong, can you Adam and Eve it? I won't say it was Millie's, but I've never found an ear in no baby's crib before. Not once on my life. Won't say a thing of it to Master King, neither, not with the way he looks at girls who wag their tongues. Keep quiet and there's a nice tuppence, chatter on and it's the boot. ------- Well if that wasn't just a laugh and a bloody half. You hear what they've had me doing, then? Can you bloody believe it? That poor little dog! Now I know what I saw and I don't care what his Lordship says, that's not on. I walk in his bundle's room to tell him time for his lessons and there he is sobbing like nothing else, and do you know what the devil was left of his pooch? Table scraps, I'll have you know, nothing but bits and bloody pieces, a sodding butcher couldn't have done it better. He pulled it right apart, hand to God, I can still see its white little teeth all mashed up and it's ribs all crackled like a house of sticks. Said it bit him and I'm sure it must have, face all cut up like that, but for all I know he bit the sodding thing right back! And that father of his, coming in like a storm! Doesn't say a word, doesn't speak at all, just walks on over and starts laying the young master out! Something wicked, no less, I've seen boxers less swabbed, all muttering under his sodding breath. "Keep it under wraps," he finally says, "get yourself together!" Pot calling the bloody kettle black on that one, you ask me, I don't know whether to feel worse for the boy or the damn dog anymore. Wasn't for the extra toss I got for keeping buttoned and cleaning up after I'd have left years ago. Little Silas King and his bloody father...they'll be the death of me, you wait and see. ---- They don't none of them see it! These new girls, they're all sixes and sevens, not a brain in the bunch! If they'd been around for his worst there'd be none of this tittering behind my back. 'Granny's at it again' they're clucking, like my greys aren't owed to that sour little so-and-so, 'she's telling war stories!' Granny my garters, I've a full score ahead of me even if I might have worn out a few boots in my day. They don't know the bleeding half of it. 'Course, I say little but he's grown up to be anything but, hasn't our Silas. He might make a ladykiller--lady killer, that's bloody rich--out of hisself if he didn't play the cold fish like his father. Thank God he's gone chill, I remember back when, well, I'll tell you what if I'd thought he wouldn't have it under wraps by now I'd have bundled off quick as could be already. Nowadays its glasses not bones, tables and chairs not growing things. Maybe he's grown a tad himself, maybe he's just bottling, but believe you me it's a relief by now, went through a bloody menagerie trying to keep him in pets. War stories, they tell me. Not the bleeding half of it. ------ Silas King, eh? 'Course I know of him, you clod, I'm his bleeding nanny! Not that he needs one these days. He grew up all fine, didn't he, best foot forward and all. A banker now, can you Adam and Eve it? He never did like people but I'll bet he's a right head with their numbers. Certainly sharp enough, head always in some book, which was the right place for it you ask me. I thank the good Lord he didn't find himself a girl while he had the devil in him, but even now I fear for that little wife of his, I really do. It's still there, you know, under his skin, and damned if it won't claw its way out soon enough. What's he like? Oh love, you don't want to settle yourself in that house, mind you me, the things I've seen. Nothing good about that man for all his fine talk and manners. Bad blood, love, breeding will out, and that father of his weren't no better. No, no, ducky, you find yourself a nice manor with a cheeky young thing that'll ruffle your skirts and pay to keep your gob shut. Better that than old King manor. You know they never did find that old father of his, and don't you 'run off with some trollop' me. We all know who done him, only is that it only weren't both ways. Devil you know my ass, better no devil at all. Why's I still there? Lord, ducky, I know too much! They don't keep me for my looks or my cooking, God knows, but I've been with the Kings since mister banker was a messy little thing. Can't let a tongue like that wander far these days, now, can you... ----- I knew it, I knew it, I bloody well told you, sitting there with a kerchief wiping blood from his knuckles. That poor woman, that poor boy, God alive I knew it all along. Constable, you've got to listen, with that man out of irons it's a matter of bleeding time. Don't you 'upstanding this' and 'well-respected' that, he's a devil in disguise and always has been. That poor woman, that poor boy! Like I sodding told you, I popped in to the study to bring him his night cap as always and there he was, bold as fucking brass in his chair, and she...Lord God, and she... it was the damn dogs all over again, the dogs and cats and bloody damn parakeets, and I knew it, God knows I knew it, and I told them, God knows I told them... He sat and he watched, governor, I swear on the cross. She weren't dead when I walked in, still waggling her tongue with no mouth to hold it in and no eyes left to see, and he watched, he bloody well watched! Just rubbed his sodding knuckles with that kerchief of his, all pale and shaking, and that's when I heard him behind me. Quiet as a church mouse and all in black, but a big man, the kind of man that looked like he might be the sort to deal with our bloody Silas. I try to talk to him, to warn him to do it quick, but he puts a glove to my lips and never-you-mind's me and steps on in as quiet as can be, and I don't see the bloody rest. I run for the stairs, to find the young master and spirit him out, and I... I... God no, I can still see it. I can't even say. God help that poor boy, I hope it was quick. Not like his mum. Not like his bloody father deserves, the fiend, but I stumble back down and check to see the deed is done and they're gone, they're sodding gone! Why I thought he might put him down I don't know, but I was scared, constable, I really was. But they're out there now, and that's me in the ground, isn't it? I've seen too much, I know too much, I've told too much, you're my only hope. Don't let him take me, constable, don't you dare let him take me. I've seen the devil, and he wears Silas King like a sodding finger puppet. God help us all.[/hider] Aspect of the Hunter: "Spiritbreaker" surrounds Silas with an aura that causes humans and monster alike to tremble at his strength. As more foes surround him he rises to the occasion, growing stronger and more enduring. Wounds dealt by his hands are wicked things that cannot be healed. Stats: Strength – A Vitality – A Skill – C Knowledge – D Bloodlust – C Darkness – B [Hider=Inventory: The Tricks of his Trade] [i]Sunday Finest[/i] -- Custom tailored to his broad and tall frame, Silas is never without slacks, shirt and waistcoat. Woven as they are with threads of thin metals and crafted to allow a freedom of movement rarely seen in such garments, they provide a modicum of resistance against various forms of damage. Combined with his natural resilience, it has made him quite the opponent. In addition the arms are fortified beneath the sleeves with proper gauntlets, the better to defend himself in the close quarters he prefers. [i]Long Day's Work[/i] -- A great topcoat that would buckle most men, the Long Night's Work is a stodgy Alastair topcoat in charcoal that falls to mid-calf and covers even Silas. It is also a veritable suit of armor in and of itself, its woolen interior lined with leather and plated with metal to guard against even the sharpest of claws. Though oft discarded in the heat of battle for greater mobility and ease of use, it is a modern gentleman's suit of armor and Silas wears it to battle as such. [i]God Save the Queen[/i] -- Far more skilled with brute force than subtlety or technique, drastic times occasionally call for drastic measures. When needs must and a nail needs hammering, Silas has just the thing in his affectionately named monstrosity. Attached to a wicked staff of black steel is a massive flanged mace-head of steel, heavy enough that even most hunters would balk to haul or sling it about. In battle it is a brutal weapon, its sheer weight often enough to deliver a fatal blow, but Silas has learned to turn it into a mechanism of momentum. A stored darkstone engine in the haft provides, for the element of surprise, a single forceful burst that rockets the head off its length--when necessary a winch can be activated along the handle to coil and affix the mace more directly but he is loathe to do so. It loses something in its reduction. [i]King[/i] and [i]Country[/i] -- Silas' go to weapons, a heavy silvered pair of trench knives add weight and power to his already overwhelming brutality. He carries them with him at all times and is unafraid to engage even the most vicious opponent with them, trusting the focused application of might to see the job through. [/hider] [/hider]